Slowing Things Down

Well, I finally set down the cross-stitch, and I'm back at the keyboard. Self-awareness is, in my experience, not so much a gradual climb ever spiraling upward. Instead, it's craggy and unpredictable and marked by periods of blissful ignorance, nonsensical frustration, and whiplash paradigm shifts.

I started this blog with some very intense goals in mind. Write another novel. Write meaningful, personal blog entries that would someday make a surprisingly best-selling memoir. Give my life a grander sense of purpose and really achieve my potential. There's nothing wrong with wanting these things - but I didn't realize how starkly this experiment would reveal/revive a long-standing inner turmoil.

When I was in second grade, I think my teacher thought I was a genius. She was convinced I should be a neurosurgeon, because that was the most money you could make for being so smart. Unfortunately, I don't think she kept this opinion to herself very well, which felt really good but made my social life and personal neuroses a bit more uncomfortable. I also won a 'young writer' competition that year I think, which felt like such a dreamy future destiny. So now there were things to live up to, for me and those around me.

The summer after my freshman year at BYU, I got really really bored. I missed school, the work and the friends. So I decided to take a Philosophy class at the local community college. Clearly it would be easier than BYU, and I would go blow them away with my fabulous writing and insights and take home easy credits. The most vivid detail I can recall is that the professor had a long beard and bushy eyebrows, but no hair on his arms or legs. I listened but didn't really engage, read but didn't study. When I got my first, short assignment back, it bore the first 'D' I had ever received in my up-to-then-stellar scholastic career. I dropped the class and never went back.

Identities forged by suggestions and praise tend to harden into a crust when we wear them long enough - and 'smart girl' and 'future writer' gave me social anxiety blisters rather than the better, truer feeling of being seen. I've been learning to stop 'hustling for worthiness' (a Brené Brown phrase) and embrace the messy imperfection in my life and self, but it's still a process, and I still have plateaus and ditches and many more hills to climb.

So it was with this blog, and those aspirations above. Wanting to use my voice and share my thoughts turned into watching the number of page views and Facebook likes with a bit too much fervor. I don't think anyone sets out to do what they want without encountering plenty of lessons on what they don't want. One thing I've learned is that I want to be content and pleased with my own small, personal life. I have to fully embrace my own home and family and community and self in a way that may leave less time and energy for the bigger and grander versions of myself - it was a tremendous relief to hold this blog and what it represents to me a bit more loosely.

I'm not going away - I will still write here a few times a month. But I think I will probably be more thoughtful about what I write, instead of obsessing over how often I write, and how popular that writing is. Let me just write to you, my friends, and share my little corner of life with you. That's what I really care about, anyway.

Intentions, Interrupted

I picked a 'word of the year' this year, and sometime around September I forgot to remember it. This is odd considering it's been my laptop's wallpaper all year, but we all know the phenomenon of refrigerator blindness and I think this functions in a similar way.

Luckily, my word is 'Grace', so I am letting go of my snarky self-talk and trying again.

You would think that I would take this opportunity to write a little essay on my word and what it has meant for me this year. But this ain't that post.

Instead, I want to tell you about my best intentions. I am great at beginnings, and the enthusiasm of fresh starts, and not stellar at follow through and completion. For example: At the beginning of November, I set a jar on the counter and intended to write little notes each day of things I'm thankful for, and invite Dave and any visitors to the house to do the same. Here is the jar today.



There's a red leaf in there. I put it in there yesterday, a week or so after Dave pointed out that it looked like we were thankful for nothing. My other thought was to take the lid off and say we are grateful for everything, and the jar is a cosmic symbol of the universe.  But it's a cool-looking leaf, so I feel good about it.

I am, as the kids (might) would have said in my day, hella grateful for a lot of things. But I guess I found out that I'm not 'calligraphy on seasonal scrapbooking paper' grateful.

I have a few items of seasonal decor that have sat waiting to be hung up for a few weeks. They will probably see the inside of a box for several months before they see a hanger. I intend to make apple cider donuts this week so that I can hopefully use the cider I bought to replace the one I bought two years ago that sat in the garage and seasoned itself out of drinkability. The sheer number of unfinished craft projects tucked into various nooks and crannies would make some of you cry. Let's all have a moment of silence for my dear long-suffering husband who is tearing up/breaking out in hives just reading this post.

But! Today! I am picking up a long-delayed project and going back to work on a cross-stitched Christmas stocking I started maybe 7 years ago. It's gonna be beautiful sometime around 2023.

Our Lady of Perpetual Calendars

Today (November 18) is, as I'm sure you are all well aware, Mickey Mouse's birthday. (I wasn't aware of his birthday until this year, and I'm a big fan, so don't feel bad.) I decided to add this important date to the 'Woodland Creatures' perpetual birthday calendar hanging on the side of my fridge.

Important side note - as a pregnant person, I was sure that Asher's name and my Woodland baby shower theme were completely innovative. Five years later Asher is a wildly popular name and every freaking thing in Target has a squirrel or a deer on it. Not complaining - I still love what I love with absurd glee. You should see the be-scarved plush critters I got on clearance last week: a-dor-a-bull.

So, the perpetual calendar. Mostly just family birthdays, with a few unusual additions. For example: 7 or 8 years ago, on a foggy morning, I ran over a rabbit on the way to church. In my late teens/early twenties, I frequently cried at the sight of roadkill, so this experience was devastating. In processing my grief and trauma, David and I created Frederich von Bunnington Memorial Day. January 3rd, of course. There is still some confusion as to whether Frederich von Bunnington (RIP) was a hero, a simpleton, or an existential bully. We may never know. But he is remembered, and occasionally toasted with a memorial carrot.

When I was a freshman at BYU, my friends created a calendar of unusual holidays for us to follow, and I am trying to put together some more similar celebratory days for my little family to commemorate. I could see us embracing 'Flip Flop Day' (traditionally in January) a little too easily if current weather trends continue. I may have to go digging through my college memorabilia and see if I still have my calendar - I need more holidays! What would be a good month for 'Treat Yo Self' day? I'm thinking February because February usually blows.

What unique days and events do you commemorate? What new holiday would you institute?

Trying to Write

Tuesday night, Asher didn't want to sleep. He woke at 1 am, a bit too warm under his blankets, and yelled "Mom! Mom! MOMMY! MAAAHMMMMEEEEEEE!" Which is actually the normal sound of my human alarm clock sometime around 6 am. But one o'clock is pretty punishing. I attempted resettlement, with fresh water and a lighter blanket and maybe a mildly threatening exasperation in my voice. My offers were rejected.

And I'm a sucker for cuddles, so we ended up on the couch, and hallelujah he fell back to sleep and we snuggled til 6:20. I know he won't always want to use me as a human teddy bear, so I'm cool with it on occasion.

Around 8:30, Dave woke up and could barely move - back spasm. His first of what the Dr. assured us will likely be many. We are feeling old.

He stayed in a chair for most of the day. And after Ash returned from preschool, they were both making plenty of requests for help. I was up and down, fetching and carrying, back and forth. Plug in the computer cord? Turn on Blue's Clues? Cough drops? A snack? A drink?

It took me a second after Dave raised his eyebrow to realize that the drink I was offering him was apple juice in a sippy cup. He politely declined.

I haven't felt much like writing. I just want to watch 'The Crown' on Netflix and fiddle with my phone. It's hard to create the space in my mind and life to put something more interesting together than haikus about poop. But hey, that's showing up, too. So I'm still trying.

Bad Haiku, inspired by a text to David

I love my crock-pot
but sometimes I wish that my
planning was quicker

---

do I smell diaper
or is it something burning

or this recipe

---

also, just as a 

heads up, dinner will be late

(sent at 5pm)

A Poem, on the arrival of cool weather

Thank you, last year's self,
for the foresight
the storage space
the fatalism
the grace
to save the jeans that had become too big.

A Love Letter

I was raised to be suspicious of artifice. So when Dave surprised me with a weekend trip to Disneyland a year or two into our marriage, I was only moderately enthused and mostly just curious. I remembered friends in childhood lovingly poring over maps of their recent adventures, and I was a big enough fan of 'Beauty and the Beast' to have several Belle-themed doodads in my recently vacated childhood bedroom. But I had always rolled my eyes at the 'sheeple' with rows and rows of pristine oversized white plastic video cartons in their rumpus rooms. I was sure that their copies of 'Fantasia' were just for show, whereas my dad had laid the foundation for a lifelong love of classical music by dwelling on the Stravinsky and patiently enduring the Sorcerer's Apprentice. I might be making that part up, but I do still find the Mickey part to be the least pleasurable of the options presented.

I felt a bad cold coming on as we drove down to Anaheim for Presidents Day Weekend. I was pushing Zicam and Cold-Eeze with the abandon of the uninformed - did you know it can make you nose-blind? One of my freshman roommates was nose-blind, and we would always try to get her to smell candles or shampoo until we remembered and felt renewed sorrow at her plight all over again. 

We stayed at the Holiday Inn right around the corner from the park - in walking distance. I remember wandering around Downtown Disney, enjoying the upscale-ish outdoor mall but not quite sure what to expect the next day. We saw 'Constantine' at the AMC there, which was fun. The bathrooms in that theater were memorably lavish, which was bizarre. 

I was fully prepared to go in to observe, people watch, see all the masses enjoying true old-fashioned American commercialism, capitalism in the form of a mouse-eared golden calf - I'm sorry that just got dark but I'm gonna let it lie because I'm trying to write this pretty quickly and it gives you insight into my young opinionated mind. I didn't like Six Flags so I obviously wasn't going to like this any better.

It was an overcast day, but my nose was miraculously clear and I felt excited and ready for the adventure. Main Street was cute and charming but we were here to ride rides, not window shop. Dave was super pumped to show me childhood favorites, and we started with one of his most precious - The Indiana Jones Adventure. We only got so far as the line when I started to notice something, and more importantly, feel something. The rocks felt like a cave. The lights were torches. I was entering a different kind of space and time. I spent the entire ride with my jaw on my chest - it looked real! It felt thrilling! It was, dare I say, magical! 

We came out of the ride into a torrential rainstorm - that weekend ended up being one of the wettest that year in Southern California. But that day was one of the happiest days I can remember. Because all the cynicism and suspicion and ideological dissonance was no match for the careful artistry and idealistic wonder of Disneyland. The bright-eyed enthusiasm for childlike stories and themes, and un-ironic pleasure in the tiny manufactured details, produced a feeling of pure other-worldliness that was intoxicating. Crowds were light, we were laughing and running everywhere, my feet were numb by the end of the day. I was spellbound and have been in love with the Mouse ever since. 

So young, happy, and comfortably dressed.

Luckily, my sister married a guy from Miami who loves it as much as I do, so I get to go to Walt Disney World with my family more often than some of them would prefer. My mom is still not buying any of it, but she does love the Rice Krispie balls so she comes along willingly. I could wax poetic about the joys and pleasures of all things Disney for much longer - but it's getting a bit embarrassing. I'm not extolling the virtues of escapism - we can't live in a Disney World every day. (Well, I know a few Cast Members who might like to disagree but they're special cases.) But there's something about Disney that bubbles up joy in my heart, and I love lingering in that feeling.

So I bought a wallet with Mickey Mouse ears on it. Please don't judge. ;) 

Our Piece

(I am terrible at cliffhangers, obviously, because I keep not answering the question I asked on Wednesday. But some other projects are more important, so I want to share something I did write today, and I'll get to the fun silliness next time.)

In moments of crisis, trauma, and change, life holds up a difficult and important mirror. If our hearts are in a harsh, self-critical place, we may be stunned, shocked and horrified by what we see - a human being so far from the image we were carrying of ourselves in our minds. We see our double chins and dimply thighs, our bad haircuts and pimples, our skinny legs and furry eyebrows. It’s a snapshot we weren’t prepared for, a camera we didn’t notice, in the poor lighting of the DMV or a dingy dorm hallway. 

The challenge - ALWAYS - is to bring the love of the Savior into that mirror. To remember Him, His Spirit, and to see ourselves through His eyes - as human beings, exactly as our Heavenly Parents made us. As children who are not as big as we thought we were. There is no shame in that. There is only love and encouragement. In these moments, I think the Lord is saying, “See? Look at what we’ve done! Look at what we will be able to do! Aren’t you marvelous? Aren’t you coming along nicely? Aren’t we proud?” Because they are. And so are all the people who love and support us. And we are beautiful, and the awkward pieces DO lend character, and those furry eyebrows are even on trend this year, which is truly as ridiculous a concept as it sounds in this context. 

In chapter 14 of the book of Exodus, the people of Israel are in an impossible spot. They have fled slavery, but Pharaoh is not letting them go easily. Behind them is pain, but pain they understand. And now, in verse 10, they see the pain coming after them, ready to take them back into its clutches. And before them, in the darkness, the moon glints on the waters of the Red Sea, an impassable expanse. And they are afraid. Because they are sure that they will die in this place, one way or the other. They will perish bodily in the wilderness trying to fight for freedom, or they will be dragged back into suffering and death by Pharaoh. They cannot see a way forward, but they are desperate to do something. So what does Moses, their prophet, tell them to do? Fear not. Stand still. See the salvation of the Lord. This pain will soon be far behind you. And then this verse, one of my touchstones:

 14 The Lord shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace.

I have spent a lot of time and energy fighting and battling against my own weaknesses and pains, and battling and fighting against the weaknesses and pains of others. I have worn myself out trying to be righteous or good enough to save myself and others.

But I have now come to see myself as blessed when I encounter an impassable expanse. When I can no longer put on a brave face in front of what scares me. When I must acknowledge and admit how small and incapable I am. It is in these moments that I can truly let the Lord do His work in me - where I can let Him speak peace to my soul because I no longer have to offer up an answer or a suggestion or throw a measly punch. In those moments, I truly have the only worthwhile thing left to offer - a broken heart. 

All I can do is be still, let this moment of pain pass through me, watch the Lord and his faithful ally, Time, do the work of healing. When I fight, I am fighting against myself. When I surrender, when I allow myself to collapse and let Him tend to me, when I see that all I hold is one little piece of the infinite patchwork of human life, I can begin again to take one step at a time, forward into the dark and glinting sea. The impassable recedes, the slurping muck begins to dry, and I step ever more sure footed, with the awareness that the path is not mine to make, but His. He tells us not to fear, but He knows we will. He is asking us not to let our fear keep us trapped, not to let our fear tell us that we have no choices. He wants us to open our eyes and see Him there, see what His work can be, if we let Him do it. And He is asking us to take a step. And another. And another.

Time, good or bad, will pass. The children of Israel were not walking into peace and ease and contentment - far from it. But they were stepping into a place of growth, where God could teach them and they could build a better world. Which they did, and still do, through a series of mistakes and failings and trials and wrestles and wars and loves and successes and beauties and prosperities and droughts and famines and a never-ending cycle of mundane daily acts of feeding, clothing, sheltering, and moving ever forward.

A little hint...

No one has guessed yet! And I've been very busy today, so I'm not going to reveal it yet, but here's a clue. My love for this was born during a trip we took in 2004, even though I was aware of it for basically my entire life.....

Foraging in the Wild

I used to make conservative choices when it came to things like wallets. I've been sporting a very functional dull green one for a few years, but it started getting all gummy and not zipping very well a few weeks ago, so I decided to find a replacement.

I like to scour places like Marshalls, TJMaxx and Ross for what is basically some department store's castoffs. These orphaned items deserve a home, even if no one should have wanted them in the first place.

For example, from my local Ross:

(This is not the work of one misguided individual with a chalkboard and no dictionary. Multiple people signed off on this. Let's all give them the benefit of doubting that English is their first language.)

But these days, functional no longer satisfies. I want to giggle. I have taken on the 'fun part' of Marie Kondo's work - I want 'my' things to spark joy, without having to go through all my old things to throw/give them away. I'm not a hoarder, despite what you might assume given the twitch in Dave's eye every time I open my closet door. In fact, I'm much better than I was when we were dating and my bedroom looked like a suburban gorilla nest.

So I went looking for a new wallet that had something to say, something a bit more exciting than 'I am an adult and this carries my dollars, stamps, and the shame of my rapidly-filling 'Frequent-Cookie-Buyer' card'. And so I have a new wallet. And it. Is. FUN.

But it's also a bit revealing of one of my most embarrassing enthusiasms. Not that the thing itself is embarrassing, but my level of glee about it is a bit too intense for an adult woman, propensity for cookie-buying notwithstanding. But it will make me giggle every time I pull it out of my purse for a long while, I bet.

So, can you guess? Will you try? I'll show you on Friday, embarrassment or not. ;)

Pretty Much Just Water Slides, Part 3

Shortly after I turned 30, I realized that water slides are fun. Now, I have yet to go to one of the big stand-alone water parks with the super high slides that my mother-in-law once said seem to be designed for feminine hygiene purposes. (It's a douche that gives you a wedgie!) But I started with the tame offerings of a Disney World hotel kiddie pool a couple of years ago and worked my way up to, last week, riding in a tube with David down the 'Whiplashing Whirlwind of Possible-Lingering-Injury', screaming a few choice expletives and trying not to lose my contact lenses.

Many people spend their youth believing they're invincible. They take risks, strike out, goof around and then, eventually, settle down and develop more caution. I did this backwards. I was so careful and cautious. No risks, or at least very few. I wrapped myself in safety, taking it as some assurance that fear and pain were optional and I could opt out quite happily. Didn't try anything I might fail. Didn't do anything when I couldn't foresee a happy ending. And it did produce a happy life, for a time.

But then, you learn. We all learn. Fear and pain are not optional - they are standard features. No, they are essential components - parts of the engine that drives the whole human experience. Rejecting those things means a flat life, lived on level surfaces, and it means you're all the more shocked and dismayed when a chasm opens up beneath you. If you have no experience with the dynamic of falling, then the fall hurts you twice because you haven't yet grieved the notion that you might never fall in the first place. And after a few tough years in a row, I just didn't fear that sliding, sinking, falling sensation so much anymore. It's not that I was numb to it - far from it.

It's that I knew eventually I'd splash down into a pool of water that buoyed me up again, that I could wipe the sopping strands of hair from my face, blink my contacts back into place, and rise up to climb again. Also, I started to look at my whole life, this entire human experience, as a place where we come to play. To learn, to test our mettle, to laugh and scream and sputter and get scared together. Can I see it as a safe place, rather than somewhere to be scared of? I don't mean to imply that we come through unscathed. Bones and hearts are broken, and there is no shame in resting on a lounge chair or sitting in a warm, bubbly pool. But if I'm able, can I move from the comfortable placidity of the Lazy River to the thrills of the highest, scariest slide, trusting that it's still all been designed to create joy? There is still fear in that slide. There is, as my mother-in-law intimated, discomfort in our most sensitive places. But there's a unmatchable thrill in trusting that the water will carry your body safely down, that eventually you will land, that you will come up and out, that you will take a moment to breathe, that there's more fun to be had.

Sooooo, I have a cold.

Here's a video of a baby goat in a costume.

Death Row and Water Slides, Part 2

Huntsville was green and pretty that day - I remember waiting outside while our professor made arrangements for our security orientation. The prison itself is beautiful old red brick building, and looks more like a high school than a prison. There were 'trusties' mowing and gardening outside - throughout our prison tour we didn't encounter anyone in any kind of confinement, and instead watched men going to and from education classes and exercise. This unit is where many Texas prisoners are transferred to be released from the system. Our tour guide was a guard who had worked at the prison for many years, and who personally had overseen many executions. I have the vague recollection of a mustache, a paunch, and a Texas drawl, but I don't think his appearance or voice would fall outside of whatever you might imagine a longtime Texas prison guard to resemble.

The tour began with the oldest cell block in Texas, dating from 1849. I'm 5'9", and a cell for two people would have been too small for me to stand tall or stretch my arms in. They had even set mannequins in antique prison garb inside to demonstrate and give us a feel for the times. We also had an opportunity to be shut into 'the hole' as a group for a time - a small, black-walled box of a room that would occasionally house dozens of prisoners at once as punishment. There were nervous giggles, rather than horror or solemnity. Our guide was knowledgable and matter-of-fact, and gave us accounts of famous prisoners and an eleven-day hostage siege in 1974. Then we proceeded to the space used for executions.

Three cells, a short hallway, and a green room with a gurney. 'Death Row' doesn't actually house prisoners until their time of execution - they arrive shortly before their appointed time to die. In 2010, they told us about the prisoners' last meals - made from whatever the kitchen already had in stock, and produced in bulk. If the person wanted a burger, they got four burgers. The guard explained that it helped 'slow down and calm' the person. Apparently in 2011, they did away with providing a particular 'last meal'. There's a table with a couple of Bibles and a Quran. The person can request a chaplain. And when the time comes, they are escorted down the hall to the execution chamber. Some go willingly. Some must be dragged.

I was surprised by my lack of emotional reaction to this experience at the time. I had always been firmly anti-death penalty, but I found myself hearing such a sensible understanding coming from this guard, and felt so much more aware of the process and rationale behind it. We crowded into the chamber, some of us touching the gurney. We could see the observation room, divided into two halves. There was a microphone coming down from the ceiling to allow the prisoner to give last words, and the guard directed us to the Department of Criminal Justice website where all these last words have been recorded for the public. And he talked us through the process of an execution and told us about his own emotional experiences and ability to compartmentalize so that these moments stayed on the unit, rather than following him home.

We filed out again into the crisp sunshine, piled onto the hired school bus, and headed to grab fast food and tour the nearby Texas Prison Museum, which houses, among other artifacts and interactive exhibits, 'Old Sparky', the formerly employed electric chair. Then it was back onto the bus for the ride home, chatting casually about nothing much with my classmates. Finally, I loaded up a bag and headed to Great Wolf Lodge to eat dinner with the weary adults and water-logged kids who had been mightily enjoying themselves.

When my mom asked about the trip, I remember saying it had been interesting, and I remember, for the first time in my life, defending the death penalty as rational and necessary. After spending all that time thinking about it, I felt like it all made sense. And my mom flushed red and her eyes widened and she was completely bewildered and probably horrified. But I didn't really want to discuss it so I just squeezed into my swimsuit and headed out to do my thing.

Dave asked, for the inevitable umpteenth time, if I would finally do a waterslide. 'Asked' might be a weak word to use - he had been pretty much begging me to do things like ski and rollerblade and rollercoaster and waterslide for the entirety of our almost 10 yr relationship at the time. I'm a chicken. I didn't like to have anything without an engine and brakes between me and the ground. But I decided it was time to try it. I was brave. I'd spent an entire day in a prison! I'd touched the gurney in an execution chamber! I could do this!

I got halfway up the first flight of stairs before I started to shake. I was looking down, a very short way down, into the churning water where the slide would exit. The riotous echoes of kids yelling and splashing, the muggy chlorinated atmosphere, the chaotic motion of water and people had me swaying and rooted me to the railing. And I had my first real panic attack. I sat down hard on the concrete stairs, breathing fast and shallow, and was sure I would pass out. I'm not sure who helped me leave the stairs, I'm sure Dave was there and maybe my sister Abby, but I remember shivering until my teeth rattled.

Within two days, I was against the death penalty again. I still am. In my opinion, it has no place in a civilized society, and it's a practice born of our baser desire for revenge rather than the better angels of our nature. In truth, I wish I could fully live my convictions and become a vegetarian, because of my distaste for killing. But I've also convinced myself that I could slaughter a hog or a cow or a chicken to feed myself and my family if need be. Of course I could. I'm brave.

On Friday - Waterslides and what's changed since then.

Death Row and Water Slides, Part 1

I'm writing this post on Sunday night because tomorrow we are heading to Great Wolf Lodge for a little family getaway. This may well be the most highly anticipated event in Asher's life so far, because it is with this trip that he has discovered the calendar, and perhaps on a broader level the passage of time itself. For seven weeks or so, I have been helping him count down the weeks and days until we go to 'Big Bad Wolf Swim Suit'. We put a sticker on the calendar. Dave made a chart for him to 'X' off the days, but he prefers to write a 'yes' instead (which is a wonky checkmark, often on the wrong square). And when I say 'for seven weeks', I mean '10-25 times a day for seven weeks'. Luckily, after the first week or so, he seemed to believe that we really would go, so he stopped being wildly disappointed every time I explained the calendar.

We've been visiting this particular hotel/indoor waterpark occasionally for several years now, including for Asher's first couple of birthdays. But we also went before we ever had Asher, to play with our nieces and nephew and enjoy the only-now-understood thrills of being the childless couple on family vacations. (Go eat dinner at 8 pm! Quietly! Sleep in! I can't keep writing about this or I might start crying a little with nostalgia.) What never really worked for me was the water park bit - I never liked big slides of any kind after the traumatic surprise of a 'Super Slide' at a local carnival - it was way higher and bumpier than it looked from the ground and I was never again enthused by any way of descent that didn't involve stairs. But I enjoyed the Lazy River, the Wave Pool, and playfully but definitively pushing off Dave's pleadings for me to 'just try the Howling Tornado of Death, it's really not that bad when you get up there.' No thanks, bud. Not gonna happen. Each time, I thought, 'I'm just gonna do one, I'll survive and he'll  stop asking when he sees how much non-fun I had.' But I never did. I just drank Diet Coke from a bucket while I watched the kids play, and played arcade games with the rapt absorption that I can no longer muster with one eye scanning to see if Asher has climbed up into a Skee-ball machine again.

In 2010, I was taking some college classes near our home in order to apply for nursing school. I already had a BA in Sociocultural Anthropology, but the huge salary I was promised for ethnographic fieldwork had never materialized. (I thought about making a dweeby joke about getting paid in potlatch but I thought I'd embarrass myself enough by just threatening to make said joke for the .2% of people who would even get it or care, and they'd still probably correct me so it would be an utter waste. I have a lot of pride in my idealistic choice of major, but it comes with a hefty sidecar of eye-rolling at myself.)

One of the required classes was in Sociology, which I had always seen as Anthropology's second cousin who you get lumped in with at reunions but don't really enjoy too much. But I liked the class and it was easy as pie, so I was enjoying the experience. We were offered a special field trip to Huntsville, where we would tour the oldest prison in Texas, and in particular we would visit the state's execution chamber, which is the most active site of execution in the country. I was willing and intrigued, but, as I'm sure you can guess, the trip happened to fall on the week of our family's jaunt to 'Big Bad Wolf Swim Suit'. So I planned to go on the field trip (about 8 hrs long) and meet up with everyone at the end of the day, spend the night at the hotel and do the whole Wave Pool/Diet Coke/Not Watersliding thing.

But it went a little weird.

Fried-Day - a Postscript

Well, we were in Dallas yesterday, and the siren song of Fair Park was too loud to ignore. All of Asher's cousins were in attendance, and I couldn't resist. Of course, it was a very different experience, but no less memorable.

Alas, the joys and pleasures of Senior Citizen day are no more. Greatest Generation dodderers have been usurped by grim-faced Baby Boomers bemoaning the length of the line for corn dogs. The tone has definitely changed. The place was packed on a Thursday morning - it ain't right. However, I did enjoy my fought-for fried food, and Asher actually sat for the entire puppet show! (The word 'sat' is used very loosely, as it consisted of crawling between my lap and kneeling on his seat. Also, that show has some pretty serious copyright infringement going on, but I don't think anybody's gonna rat them out. Plus, Ash laughed the hardest when they re-enacted a Kermit the Frog bit, so I'm not the stoolie for the job.)

My biggest head-wag is reserved for The Food and Fiber Pavilion (insert gregorian dirge here), which is now an uninspired cattle chute filled with poor suckers in a long line for a cup of Activia. That used to be ice cream! There was once a cow! HER NAME WAS ELSIE. HER BABY'S NAME WAS BEAU. AND THERE WAS CHOCOLATE MILK. I'm devastated.

Here's a tribute to the now-defunct ice cream station. Now everybody has to buy actual scoops of ice cream rather than relying on anemic ice-frosted sample-sized cones. Okay, maybe it's not the saddest thing in the world.

Desert Island Discs

Every Sunday, I like to listen to a BBC radio show/podcast called 'Desert Island Discs'. Host Kirsty Young interviews all sorts of people and asks them to pick 8 music tracks they would take when stranded on a deserted island. She also asks what book you would choose to add to the Bible and the Complete Works of Shakespeare (I'm taking Jane Austen's oeuvre) and a luxury item (Knife? Flint? I'm tempted by a lifetime supply of Diet Coke in cans, because that would be tools, shelter, and a party in my mouth.) Naturally, I've been working on my own list of songs, but I only have a few nailed down for sure.

1. Beethoven's 7th Symphony, Allegretto. Beautiful, haunting, adds drama to any situation.

2. Eric Idle: Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life. Funny, heartwarming, adds perspective to any situation. Seriously, any situation. As evidenced by the video. Warning: one well-placed swear word.

3. Edith Piaf: Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien. I recently introduced this song to Asher and now he wants to listen to the first 30 seconds ad infinitum. And I have no problem with that - it's two minutes of sheer ballsy courage and ferocity.

4. Animal Collective: What would I want? Sky. Complex weirdness and beauty from a longtime favorite band. Also nice and long and makes me feel like I could maybe fly.

I have a few more, but I'm really interested in yours! What's one song you wouldn't want to live without?

Trying Times

I spent a lovely weekend alone, recharging and rediscovering the good, quiet places inside myself.

I held a lorikeet at the zoo, and he licked my finger. I didn't know birds could lick.

I also listened to a few favorite podcasts, including On Being with Krista Tippett, and I want to share something with you that she shared with me.

I have been through times of great pain and difficulty. I have quite a few friends who are in pain and difficulty right now. And, as life continues, we will all take turns in their places. Here's a bit of something beautiful for those dark moments. I'm wishing peace, love, and healing to all of you.

Quiet friend who has come so far,
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,

what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.

In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus II, 29

Baptism by...

I don't really feel like writing today. I have already changed 12 foul diapers and the clock just struck 10 am, so my ratio of awake hours to bum wipes is disheartening. There's nothing like waking up to the angelic sound of your sweet, sickly babe hollering "Change a poo-poo?"

When Ash was 5 or 6 weeks old, I remember feeling like life was an endless session of Red Light Green Light. I would get up, change him, feed him, probably change him again, get him to sleep, pump (a whole other story), lie down, look at my phone in a delusional state of exhaustion, and finally remove my glasses and shut my eyes. Despite a diagnosed hearing loss in one ear, the kid had a perfect alert system for the sound of my glasses hitting the bedside table and it would start right back up again. We kept the lights low to encourage sleep and to try to maintain some differentiation between day and night but it was all pretty much delirious sleepwalking.

One morning, after a dazed and memorably messy 2 am encounter, I got up, dressed, got Asher bundled up, and set off to do some necessary errands. It was only when I pulled up to an ATM at 830 or so that I reached for my wallet and saw it.

Poop.

Dried.

On my hand.

Just the lightest smear on the back of my thumb, but I was dumbfounded.

Once I got over the shuddering horror of being slimed and scrubbed the residue with the abundance of baby wipes I kept in my vehicular equivalent of a hobo's bindle, I had a humbling and transformative realization:

I was a mother.

After 5 years of infertility and 30 years of 'girl-' and 'woman-' hood, I had been granted a new identity to proudly claim. That was a badge of honor, my friend.

(One that I quickly went home and scrubbed off again. And again. And again.)

It's All Yours Already

Obedience is something that comes naturally to me.

There are very few rules, or even suggestions, that I disobey with impunity. I could probably name all of them, but here's a sampling: I rarely keep off the grass if it's just a mowed lawn - that's just a tidy version of nature's sidewalk and it feels better to my feet.

Actually, I just sat here for two minutes trying to think of another one and I couldn't.

Oh yeah! I drive across the middle of parking lots. Don't tell me what to do, white paint. Yellow and red paint are the only bosses of me.

But I'm definitely not touching the things with the 'no touching' signs. I'm not going into 'employee only' areas. I'm staying in the bounds, no matter how puny the bounds are.

I think a lot about the story of the Prodigal Son. For most of my life, I saw it as a lovely tale of repentance and redemption, about those 'other people' who don't obey and twist off and need to come to their senses in a pile of manure. About the times when I maybe DID cross a line and got caught and shamed and ran back crying and humiliated. About the people who betrayed me, who I needed to run to with open arms and retrieve them and reassure them and teach them how to do it 'the right way' again. There's an unflatteringly self-oriented thread running through those, so I'm just letting you know I'm aware of it.

But, as often happens with those TARDIS-like parables (they're bigger on the inside, and I'm a nerd), I have discovered and drawn close to a new character. Perhaps (no, certainly), uncomfortably close.

Now his elder son was in the field: and as he came and drew nigh to the house, he heard musick and dancing. And he called one of the servants, and asked what these things meant. And he said unto him, Thy brother is come; and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath received him safe and sound. And he was angry, and would not go in: therefore came his father out, and entreated him. And he answering said to his father, Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment: and yet thou never gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends: But as soon as this thy son was come, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf. And he said unto him, Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine. (KJV Luke 15: 25-31)

Here's one of the downsides of innate obedience - the rules become more important than the real. Pain and relief have both come from mourning all the moments and relationships and eras of my life when I was focused so much more on watching and maintaining the fences than I was with turning around and exploring the garden I'd been given. Anxiously coloring inside the lines but never changing crayons from a dull, drab brown. 

As religious and/or thoughtful people we often focus on righting wrongs and healing from harm. We challenge ourselves to grow in goodness, in patience, in love. Obedience to moral and religious codes can free us to make bigger, better choices. I've heard these boundaries described as guardrails on a bridge - without boundaries we are slower, more cautious, more unsure as we cross the bridge, and with them we can more quickly and confidently move forward. 

But it's a scenic bridge! We didn't come here just to move along - we came to look and linger and enjoy and smell and embrace. And too often I found myself clinging to the guardrails and warning others of the potential for doom, rather than looking up and down and around at all the joy that's there to be received. 

We don't have to wait for some benevolent pat on the back and a goody bag. We can have songs and dancing and roasted goat on a spit whenever we desire. Everything He has is ours - we don't only received it when we make desperate missteps. It's the inheritance we live and breathe.

(Three Wise Men I'm learning from: Rob Bell, Timothy Keller, and Adam Miller who is actually a real person I know. I assume the other two are real but I've never eaten taquitos at their houses.)

Fur-Weather Friends

Everywhere you look right now, you see my spirit animal. Fall decor has appropriated the squirrel, and I'm reclaiming them as year-round objects of my affection and admiration.

My middle name is Forrest. I feel closest to my primordial self when surrounded by trees - they populate my favorite stories and scriptures and art of all kinds. The woods are full of symbols and meaning that I don't think I could begin to touch in a light and fluffy blog post, but I can definitely touch on my feelings for light and fluffy squirrels.

Some people see squirrels as pests, and they can certainly live up to that expectation. They're tree rats who chew through your attic and leave unpleasant souvenirs - my mother once saw one peering into her kitchen through an air conditioner vent. She was not thrilled. I'm not thrilled by regular non-tree rats, incidentally - ten years ago one jumped from a shelf by my face onto my bare foot and I screamed and peed my pants as a full grown adult. Let's pretend that's the only time I've peed my pants as a full grown adult though - makes for a better story, I think.

Here's a brief list of reasons why squirrels are my best wild animal friends.

1. Big eyes, brown fur, fluffy. That's pretty much me.

2. They are everywhere. Squirrels live in almost every habitat on the planet, so anywhere you go, you can spot one, which means I can be easily delighted anywhere on earth. If your spirit animal is a giraffe or a katydid or a ring-tailed lemur, sucks to be you. Have fun at the zoo, my unfortunate friend. I'll be over here in this random parking lot communing with my symbol of selfhood.

3. They are inherently funny. Lions? Majestic. Dolphins? Adorable. Butterflies? Delicate and beautiful. Squirrels? Hilarious.

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Need I go on? I CAN DO THIS ALL. DAY. LONG. (Don't think I haven't already, multiple times.)

4. They are brave, intrepid, enthusiastic, curious, hard-working, and ridiculously cute; and have a reputation for being overexcitable and somewhat flaky. Me all over. Except the 

hard-working part, but that's a topic for another post.

So the next time you see a squirrel (which, let's face it, will be pretty soon), give it a little wave in my honor, and imagine it in a sweater. See what I mean? Delightful.

Good Old-Fashioned Blech

One of the many blessings of preschool (hallelujah) is that when you feel crummy, you can take a true sick day. Well, a sick morning-midafternoon, but don't kill my buzz, people. I've got blankies, pillows, TV, and a barrel of ice water with a straw. This certainly beats the pre-preschool routine of 'put Disney movies on repeat, toss a pile of cheerios on the floor and try not to pass out while the kid tears the house down around you'.

But nothing compares to sick days as a kid, right? I had mono as a kindergartner, which is unusual, but I was nothing if not precocious. I was sick from Thanksgiving to Easter, VERY sick, and bedridden for a good piece of that time. I don't remember feeling sick, just tired. But what I DO remember is getting to lay in my parents' big bed, reading and coloring,  and that they borrowed a VCR from somewhere and brought a TV into the room so I could watch The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. And maybe Faerie Tale Theatre. And whatever other great PBS shows that came on before McNeil Lehrer - we really loved 'Frudal Gournet', which I still love and might go watch on youtube today. Here's a blast from the past for you:

As an adult, you don't usually get that same sensation of being fretted over and doted upon. To be fair, I know when Dave is sick my doting only lasts for so long before it's tinged with envy and resentment, with a splash of suspicion. But I'm not gonna lick his spoons to try to get some down time in return - it's just not worth all the catching-up you have to do after really being down for the count.

However, a couple of years ago I had a really bad virus and was absolutely miserable, and my dad brought me crayons, a coloring book, and some lottery scratch-offs. He's maybe the best person in the history of ever, and this incident will be included in his Nobel nomination, I am sure.

Deep Wednesday Thoughts

Something created for everyone but now considered childish:

Disney animated movies. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (I wanna say Dwarves but that's not what they called it, English is weird and whatever Walt says goes) was created with adults and kids in mind - and it was a massively crazy hit. Adjusted for inflation, it's one of the top ten box office performers in US history. (Per Wikipedia. Do I have to cite sources in a blog?) Buddy loves 'Heigh-Ho', but I'm always a bit thrown by how scary the first part of the movie is. Freaky trees with claws! Also, I took him to a repertory screening of 'Sleeping Beauty' - that is a beautiful film on the big screen. Just stunning.

Something created for kids but now considered for everyone (aside from the aforementioned coloring books):

Gummy vitamins. Why is this a thing? Did no one in my generation learn to swallow pills? Does melatonin need to be candy so that adults will begrudgingly go to bed? I got over the thrill of consuming fruit-flavored erasers at too early an age, I suppose. Also, they're marketing those squeeze-pouches of fruit to adults too - it's baby food, people. If you're gonna get into baby food, man up and get it in the little jar and eat it with a rubberized spoon. Don't think you're fooling anyone with your 'I'm grown and on the go so I'm gonna suck down this little pouch  of apple-kale-sauce through a tiny spout right before I whine about wanting to take a nap' vibe. Also coconut-water juice boxes. Also cupcakes (which I actually have no beef with because I'd have to be a fool to turn my nose up at those, no matter how many sprinkles are on top).

Whelm

Some days, the world just feels way too big.

I know that there are people I know - people I love, people I respect, people with huge Facebook followings - who feel energized and excited by getting into the turmoil of the larger world. Politics, religion, social and cultural issues. There are dozens of articles to read, comments to debate, thoughts and feelings and values to examine and proclaim and decry. There are huge hurts and wounds in the world that we are all called to help to heal. We all claim some level of involvement in or responsibility for the various communities of which we are a part. We have identities, tribes, nations, genders.

With all of those identities come expectations. I should read all the books and articles that will make me a better wife, a better mother, a better writer, a better American, a better Mormon. I should talk to people and teach and lecture and correct and listen and discuss with humility and expand my network and broaden my reach. I should challenge myself, break new ground, go outside all of my comfort and stretch, stretch, stretch.

Some days that feels like too much for me.

Some days, I just want to make sure my kid eats breakfast. I just want to make my bed, and read old words that bring me peace. I want to sweep and mop and pull some weeds. I want to make bread. Check my mailbox. Feel connected to my small, immediate, physical life. I want to hug my mother. Kiss my husband. Ruffle my little boy's hair. Feel the sublime sensation of having my own hair ruffled by God and the universe and everything bigger than my self. Know that this - just this - is plenty.

(Isn't it?)

Fried-Day

(This post was originally gonna be about how tired I am. But then I thought 'Fried!' and this came out instead.)

Today is the opening day of the Texas State Fair - the Most Epic State Fair in the world, which I am certain is true even though I have never been to another state's fair. Because it's Texas. We have a beautiful Fair Park, we have a bonkers fried food competition, we have a butter sculpture and a car show and livestock and a gargantuan cowboy named Big Tex who burned down once but we brought him back bigger and better BECAUSE TEXAS. 

It's also the home of The Food and Fiber Pavilion, one of the most mellifluously named places in the universe. I have loved The Food and Fiber Pavilion since my earliest foray into its air-conditioned splendor. Before Texans cared about the environment, we would bring home a giant bag of fliers and pamphlets about cotton, butter, vacationing in Corpus Christi, and fifty recipes for ground beef. International Paper gave out rulers and a zillion pieces of paper, and we had to collect them all. We hauled bags around for the rest of the day, so that at night we could pore over our brochures and see if either of us missed any.

When we started doing yearly fair trips, I was a newly-homeschooling tween and my only memories of the fair at that point were riding rides with the random kids of a now-obscure family friend. I still remember the fun house - I was easily scared so that imprinted very well, the rest is a blur. But my mother, my little sister and I ventured down to Dallas on an uncrowded weekday circa 1995 and established a firm tradition and rigid routine for our subsequent annual fair days. 

First of all, we like to go on Senior Citizen day. They are easily outpaced so you can feel like you're really zooming through the place. Though the wheelchair row is full for the marionette show, there are plenty of good spots in the upper levels of the auditorium. Same goes for the frisbee dog show - we claimed a sprawling spot in the corner that should be engraved with our names by now. The cooking demonstrations are crowded with blue-hairs, but they're also slower in answering the audience questions so I won an Anaheim pepper once for being able to tell the chef where Disneyland is located. I didn't even know it was a pepper! I'm pretty sure it turned black and we threw it away a few weeks later. Don't fact check me on that.

We also have to start with a funnel cake, then enjoy a corny dog for lunch, perhaps washed down with root beer from a barrel. Cotton candy was a must, but also a major pain on rainy fair days. Abby has clearly traumatic memories of trying to keep her cotton candy under her plastic poncho - it's an important piece of family lore.

The Food and Fiber Pavilion (can you hear the angelic chorus celebrating that heavenly phrase) is also home to the Borden Dairy display, where they sell the Platonic Ideal of Chocolate Milk and you can also pet a cow. I'm ashamed to say I can't remember the cow's name at the moment but they missed some hipster street cred by not naming her Lizzie. There's still time, Borden - morbidity is very in this year.

I haven't even told you about the Creative Arts building, the Russian craft booth where I decided I wanted to learn Russian (I can say 'thank you' and 'apple' and 'cloud'), the car show, the sales buildings that are like museums of American ingenuity and forceful salesmanship. I do have to say that years ago all of the sample hot tubs were full and we had to put our hands in all of them, but now they only fill one or two which is a cheap move. Also, I appreciate the super powerful foot massage machines much more as an adult than I did as a teenager.

Going to the fair is a very different experience with Asher. When he was tiny, we were really able to recapture the feel of those earlier trips; but with additional family members, it's just never going to be what it was. Plus, The Food and Fiber Pavilion (God rest its somewhat-defunct soul) is now fully 1/2 gift shop and just not nearly as fun as it once was. But I still have to go pet the cow, and I'll never stop talking about it because it makes my heart sing in glorious Foodie Fibery harmony.

Also, Asher gets too overwhelmed. The smells, the crowds, the animals, the restraints needed to keep him from escaping into the wild - not his scene. I made a valiant effort last year but he just wanted to stay at the Texas Lottery booth and watch the numbered balls swirl around. Fun, but cheaper and easier to do with a bucket of ping pong balls at home. 

Sometimes we long to recreate our most treasured childhood memories for our kids, forgetting that they're not us, and that it can't even be done in ideal circumstances. His season for the fair may come, but for now I'll get his corny dogs from Sonic and show him dogs doing frisbee tricks on YouTube. And maybe I'll go by myself this year, just to see the jellies and quilts and have a funnel cake and visit The Food and Fiber Pavilion (ahhh).

Still Here, But Also Lazy

Y'all.

Netflix, a coloring book, and leftover soup. That's what I swept aside for this moment here, with you. Except I already ate the soup, so it was just the shows and coloring.

I don't know how people get enough doodling time to warrant all the adult coloring books I see for sale. Adult coloring books have tiny, fiddly designs - it takes forever to fill a page. So when are you doing them?

I went through a few different phases of coloring because initially I was under the impression that colored pencils were the only way to go. They look mature, like something an actual artist would use, so you can feel like you're doing something highbrow. But what I discovered is that I only get faint whispers of color if I hold the pencils naturally, so I ended up with a death grip claw hand and walked away feeling anxious and a bit sore, actually.

So then I tried crayons. Nostalgia factor, they smell great, they're satisfying to sharpen. But the colors end up under your nails and I still finished a coloring session looking like I was trying to do a bird shadow puppet or imitate the demonstration hand on the chopstick wrapper. This was not providing me with calm and relaxation!

My most groundbreaking coloring book discovery was the Crayola Pipsqueak Skinnies 64 pack. Markers = no reward for hand pressure. In fact, they force you to be quite deliberate and slow, which suits my desire for staying perfectly inside the lines. Which is also not relaxing, but is at least meditative. Downside? Terrible flesh tones, and very visible brushstrokes. I'm accepting the latter as a new stylistic choice (Markerism? Pipsqueakery?), but the former is still troubling. I will attach an example to demonstrate. The page is from The Official Outlander Coloring Book, a gift from my dear sister who knows my heart.

Now I have loved Jamie Fraser since I were a wee 15 yr old lass, but I haven't yet been able to bring myself to color a picture of him shirtless, let alone using colors such as 'Cheeks of a Virgin Watching Game of Thrones' or 'Ethnically Ambiguous Beige' or 'We Meant for This Color to Represent Mac n Cheese, Not Human Flesh'.  Maybe I need to invest in a broader palette of Pipsqueaks.

Unstirring the Pot

I waffle wildly in my interest level in politics.

My parents are passionate yellow-dog-Democrats in a very red state, and we talked politics a lot as a family around the dinner table. In fact, anything you'd feel uncomfortable bringing up in front of your in-laws was guaranteed to be passed around with the peas at our table. Seriously. Anything. You'd be shocked and delighted. It's one of the things I most look forward to replaying (when the nanobots give me access to all my buried memories/when I die and get the great and magical this-is-your-life remote and lifetime statistical report that I'm counting on). 

I was raised to be suspicious of nationalism, aware of our country's weaknesses, curious about and open to the ways that other people all over the word answer the same human questions. I majored in anthropology, for crying out loud - practically the birthplace of cultural relativism. I rolled my eyes at 'freedom festivals' and the sacrilegious overtones of patriotism. (I still do, but not as angrily.) But I do love my country's beauty, its ideals, its willingness to experiment. I even have a soft spot for our enthusiastic, pigheaded bravado - we're like a Golden Retriever wagging its tail like mad, unaware that we're knocking things off the shelves and shedding all over the furniture.

I was very vocal and excitable at college, where I was surrounded by young Republicans who hadn't ever encountered an exotically liberal bird such as myself. I relished blowing their minds. "You're not Mormon? You're a DEMOCRAT?!?!?!?!?!" (And then their heads exploded and they fell to their knees to pray for my eternal soul.) 

But the best part was when they would listen to my perspective, cock their heads like a puzzled spaniel, and then actually consider what I was saying and start to see why I felt that way. Was it something about our age, our new environment, the atmosphere of change and learning, that allowed us to really hear and connect with each other on such emotionally charged topics? Or has the world truly changed in 15 years? Or am I suffering from 'getting older', with its potential side effects of rose-colored nostalgia and a sneaking disdain for the future?

I fell into a bit of political apathy in my 20s - no real interest or investment in the whole deal. Lately though (let's be honest, after listening to the 'Hamilton' soundtrack a couple dozen times), I have felt a renewed interest in our democracy . . . just in time to encounter this year's three-ring circus.

It's hard to get excited to engage in the process when you feel like you won't be heard by anyone who disagrees with you. It's an echo chamber, where emotions run high but they're not really addressed. I know everyone rags on social media, but it does tend to magnify our outrage while glossing over our mutual interests and care for each other. We spend so much time trying to talk over each other, without doing the harder work of understanding and empathizing. We all get scared, and we don't do our best thinking and helping from a place of fear.

Of course, it seems to me that some people will happily take advantage of fear to use it for their own gains. I had a Cocker Spaniel named Licorice when I was a kid. He was black and sweet and sometimes nervous and his breath would strip paint off the walls. He also had a little fatty tumor on his side that was fun to squish. He was a year old when we got him, and he was terrified of garbage bags. Anytime you were carrying anything big in your arms, he would get away quick.

It'd be irresponsible of me not to say that I think of Donald Trump as someone who would wield a garbage bag to keep a dog in the corner. He's not concerned about whether you're scared. It suits his purposes to keep you that way. He's not going to reassure you that you're safe, he's not going to encourage you to grow and change, he doesn't really care about your experience of the world at all. He'll put a fence around you to give you some illusion of security from the big bag in his hand, but that will only serve to keep you small and scared of anything beyond your little kennel. That's not someone we should put in charge.

But I also don't want to use my own opinion and fears of potential tyranny as weapons in the political arena. I want to find out how to help. I want to serve, to connect with others who serve, to build a nation of Golden Retrievers gleefully yelping at the scared Cocker Spaniels to encourage them out of the corner, bowing on our front legs in an invitation to play and help and enjoy one another. (I almost included sniffing butts in that metaphor, but thought wiser of it.)

So how do you engage in a political battlefield without taking up arms? How do you share your convictions without getting tuned out? And what breed of dog would you be and why?

Heebly-Jeebly

I'm getting a cavity filled this morning, and I'm not excited. I loved going to the dentist when I was a kid, and I'm not sure what changed, other than the fact that sometime in the last few years I developed a serious aversion to people touching my face. Just.... please don't. 

A selection of things I liked as a kid that now give me the wiggins:

Going to the dentist.

Being outside on snowy days - I can enjoy it for about 10 minutes. But I hate wet pant hems, crusty slush, and the gymnastics involved in outfitting a writhing bundle of excitement who will instantly ditch his mittens and then beg to go inside two minutes later.

Froot Loops - Like eating neon fiberglass.

Wearing leotards.

Live and sincere singer-songwriters - Not sure I ever liked these, so that's kind of a cheat, but my allergy to excruciating vulnerability increases with each exposure.Also, closing their eyes while singing is an exponential multiplier of my discomfort. But it's only if they're live. I sang along with John Denver for, like, 40 minutes yesterday in the car. (Although 'Rocky Mountain High' just doesn't sound the same since Colorado basically fulfilled the prophecy contained therein.)

A selection of things I hated as a younger person that now bring me joy:

The aforementioned John Denver, The Carpenters, and generally folksy 70s music. 

Cilantro, raspberries, and dark chocolate - My taste buds changed dramatically at around age 24. Much to the delight and astonishment of my mother-in-law, who seems to 'get me' more as a person now that I also love three of her favorite foods.

Getting shots/blood drawn - Hang in here, I can explain. Doing fertility treatments meant daily injections, and very frequent blood draws. I'm now perversely proud of my ability to remain unfazed by needles, so I get a little excited to tell the nurse which veins are easiest to access, and brag a bit about giving myself (or Dave giving me) huge, painful intramuscular shots in the buttcheek for four months. Who needed nursing school when you can use yourself as a human science experiment?

Running errands - I'm by myself, I can listen to podcasts, I can get myself a treat without any begging or bargaining. Nirvana.

Non-sugary cereals - Cereal is just the best.

(So, what do your lists look like?)

Meltdown Memory Lane

For the last couple of days, I've been trying to come up with an apt simile for keeping one hand on my wild little man while simultaneously trying to chitchat with grown people. However, since Monday's post I feel like I've exhausted badgers, and wolverines are too similar. So maybe this - it's like trying to pour someone a cup of tea in a tornado. You want to be polite and friendly, but really you're just gonna be all over the place and have to pray they'll forgive you.

I've also been trying to mentally compose a list of places I have had to sit down on the floor and try to  soothe the savage Buddy.  The easy ones are stores and restaurants - too often to name. Public bathrooms? Of course. Church? The kids loves a stage, and makes an appearance on the stand about once a month, so I crawl under the piano to retrieve him. Airports? Please. Site of one of the most memorable moments, when flying alone with Buddy and trying to get through security - it took me and two angelic businessmen to get him, his car seat, two suitcases, and my sanity safely (barely) onto the plane. Yesterday, it was the museum - a favorite place, but not one he leaves easily. So we spent 5-7 minutes on the floor in front of the elevator, Ash pretending to sleep, me holding onto one of his ankles so he couldn't make a break for it. (Does the kid have to be built like a linebacker?) I ended up carrying all 53 wiggling squiggling pounds of him out of the building while he wailed "New-se-yum! No home! No car!" He also has a bizarre aversion to zoos - but that's pretty much its own post altogether.

We don't have an official diagnosis for Ash - I'm sure we could get the whole alphabet soup (ADHD, ASD, SPD, etc etc) and I'm cool with that, but we haven't needed anything official so far. But I do tend to use shorthand for strangers - nothing makes judgmental people on an airplane stop giving you stinkeye like saying 'He's autistic." All of a sudden what they see as bad parenting magically transforms into personal sainthood - it's a bit delicious, I'm not gonna lie. But it's too simple an explanation, and while I like avoiding judgement, I also dread people dismissing my kid's brilliant, unique, creative, fascinating mind. So I get a near-daily exercise in letting go of the judgements of others, and embracing the messy here and now. Let's just pretend that all public floors just got mopped this morning - that usually helps.

IntroVeryVeryVert

I married at 19, so no one would accuse me of being commitment-averse. I mean, I hadn't planned on it AT ALL. I had dreams of graduate degrees and living abroad and taking a few besotted international lovers. But when a guy comes along who loves the same obscure books and has perfectly dark and handsome sideburns and is willing to take you to 3-4 movies a week, you better believe I'm locking that down. Almost fifteen years later, he still makes me laugh so hard in public that people give me serious sideye. On a weekly basis. (The sideburns are gone though, which I think was wise. They served their purpose in the mating dance, and he's moved on to romance-novel-worthy long and luscious locks - which is also definitely working for me.)

Another thing that brought us together was our shared love of not being around other people. Early in our marriage my mother-in-law enthusiastically roped us into taking the official Myers-Briggs test at the guidance counsel-y office in the busiest building on campus. So I spent a bit of a morning getting anxious about answering self-reflective questions correctly, which probably gives you a sneak peek of the results. At the time, I was a few points into the Extraversion category. But this was so, so very wrong. College was the height of my social activity, which probably had to do with the Rock Star status anointing the .01% non-Mormon students at BYU. Joining the church had the side benefit of allowing me to slip back into the squeaky-clean, somewhat-unfashionable crowd. Marrying David (a classic 'I could use about a month on a mountaintop, if you send snacks' introvert) was sweet, sweet relief. And we have spent several years happily avoiding parties together. And I play at ambiversion, cycling through eras of ambition and retreat, making friends and losing touch.

I think parenthood has intensified some of these traits. Ash is high energy, high intensity, human pinball madness. (In a very endearing, precious way.) So I hoard alone time like a ravenous badger. I also crave adult conversation and thoroughly enjoy social validation, which is hard to balance with my reclusive badgerly instincts. So every invitation is received with initial panic. Yes, invite me, I want to be loved! But please love me from over there while I stay home and make freezer jam. 

(I just made freezer jam today. Inside this badger is a Martha Stewart-looking badger wearing an apron.)

((I'm just gonna post this now because all I want to write about now is anthropomorphic badgers.))

Beginning is Continuing

I had a blog when I was a freshman in college. Sadly, I cannot resurrect those poetical musings for our mutual amusement/cringes. (You really should feel grateful - fifteen years later, all I remember is thinly-veiled allusions to boys I liked and congratulating myself on my own 17-yr-old cleverness.) So I am starting a new one, when everything and nothing about me has changed.

I'm scared to start this, though. I have a lot of very good excuses for going back to my leaf-raking and book-reading and Candy-Crushing. I have a challenging life with a fascinating and unique kid, who fills me with joy, tests my fortitude and endurance, and fuels my addiction to Diet Coke. I have a brilliant, funny, loving husband whose deepest fantasies inevitably involve a spotless kitchen. I also have a lifelong dream of being a published novelist, and how does this help me in that quest, exactly?

Here's the thing that hasn't changed for me though - through all those intervening up-and-down years, and even from my earliest memories, I have had a boundless, insatiable hunger for storytelling. I want to hear stories, read stories, watch stories, and tell stories. There is a soul-deep desire in me to bring stories into the world, and that desire knows no genre. Unfortunately, that desire also knows no discipline.

I wrote a book once. It's short, it's sweet, it's pretty crappy. And I am SO proud of it. And I want to do it again. But for some reason, going through years of fertility treatment and a few years of extra schooling and loads of therapy and having a baby and figuring out how to raise a kid with special needs has slowed my drive to the pace of an anemic sea turtle crossing the Gobi desert. (And yeah, I know that's kind of an awkward metaphor, but I'm rusty so you'll just have to let it ride.) So I need some help getting my mojo back - will you help me?

I'm going to commit to writing a post every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Because preschool. And if I post here, that's proof that I not only wrote a blog post, but I also wrote a bit of fiction on the same day. (I know you want to read it. You do. Because you love me. But I love you too, so I'll only subject you to my mental diarrhea in one venue at a time. (I just said diarrhea in my first blog post. Get out while you can.))

So thanks for allowing me to use you. I bet the last person who used you for their own purposes didn't thank you for it, so I'm feeling virtuous now. If you're willing to tag along for this, you'll hear whatever I'm contemplating that day, which could include pretty much anything because I love cultivating an eclectic brainspace.

I'm kind of embarrassed and annoyed by that last sentence. Thanks for being gentle with me while I recover from that.

Last thing - the title. I've done most of my creating in life by strong-arming my perfectionism into submission. This leaves me feeling powerful, but also sets me up for feeling more intimidated by every foray into something new. So this blogging thing? I'm just going to try. Most posts will be first drafts. Attempts. I'm looking forward to trying this new thing, as trying as it may be. So try leaving a comment! Let's be awkward together.