Love Is In The Air

There really is no reason all of my children shouldn’t be getting married now.  Sure, when it comes to event planning I haven’t tackled anything harder than a laser tag birthday party, but weddings are fun, and besides, Scarlett would make a lovely child bride.  But for now I suppose I’ll have to resign myself to having JUST two daughters engaged at the same time. Heavy sigh.  So boring.  Sort of like watching March of The Penguins.  That’s right, ONLY Julia got engaged last Friday, but it was really sweet, so I think I’ll tell you about it.

Falling in love with someone from Oregon when you’re from Florida is advisable only for those with gigantic personal bubbles.  For anyone else, an entire country separating you from the one you love is a bit irksome.  And it’s fair to say that Julia was irked.  She wanted to see Paul, wanted to show him around her hometown, and so she suggested as much.  But Paul said he was swamped, and so instead of belly aching (very much,) she got busy enjoying the time she had at home until her summer job in Park City started, not realizing all the while that scheming was afoot.
Around a month ago Paul called me wondering if he could enlist our help.  He wanted to surprise Julia by popping up here and popping the question.  We knew they loved each other, knew an engagement was imminent, that it was just a question of when, and so we told him we we’d be happy to help.  And right from the start two things became clear—we were bumblers when it came to espionage, but it was okay, because Julia was oblivious.During Family Home Evening when Rich announced that the oldest son of his favorite mission companion, Manuel Lopez, was coming from Chile to visit, Julia didn’t smell a rat, even when he said his name was Pablo.  Pablo!  My body went cold.  I thought for sure the gig was up, that Rich had blown our cover, but Julia did not raise an eyebrow in suspicion.  She remained blissfully oblivious, despite Rich snatching her phone out of her hand when she suggested we search for him on Facebook, and me announcing his name was NOT Pablo, but Javier.Julia was happy to help me ready the house for Javier’s visit, not that the house was messy.  My house is never messy.  She just spruced a little, did some minor dusting.  And getting a new dress on Tuesday, new shoes and a Bruster’s ice cream cone (I usually say no) on Thursday, a mani-pedi, hair appointment, and breakfast with her Dad on Friday meant nothing more than she was having a fantastic week.  Little remembrances of Paul showing up throughout the day on Friday--a Buzz Lightyear toy on the kitchen counter, her dad and her little brother wearing loud socks, black licorice dropped off by my visiting teachers—added up to nothing more than coincidence.  And so when I suggested that she put on her new outfit and we go to Hollis Gardens to take pictures she was willing to oblige.  It was, after all, Prom weekend.  Her mother was just in the picture taking mood.Julia walked into the garden with nothing in particular on her mind, just a happy girl indulging her mother's sudden photography kick.  I suggested we start taking pictures in the grotto, a rock garden with hanging vines and koi pond.  She stepped down, I stepped away, and then Paul stepped forward.If you’ve seen the video you’ll agree that she looks pretty casual, like she was expecting Paul to emerge from behind a rock arch, but what you’re really seeing is a girl so stunned she appears calm.  Julia didn’t keep Paul in suspense long.  She said, “Yes,” and it was such a pleasure to  be there and witness their happiness.Over the past year that they’ve dated, I’ve thought more than once how lucky Paul is to have caught Julia’s eye.  Maybe I’m biased, but I think she’s awesome.  But what seeing them together for a few days here made me realize is she’s lucky too.  Paul is a great guy, and his love for her is what any parent would want for their daughter.  Congrats, Paul and Julia.  Let the wedding planning begin!

Sweet Caroline

Just in time for menopause, Bruce Jenner is becoming a woman.  As vice-president of the Hot Flashes Society, I’ve got to say that may not go down as the best decision he’s ever made.  But hey, we all make choices we regret.  Like, for instance, me, neglecting my blog for months on end.  Yeah, shouldn’t have done that.  But life sometimes can be like caravanning behind a friend who has a lead foot—you’re trying to keep up, but they’re going so fast!  Enough excuses.  It’s time for me to channel my inner Jeff Gordon, because whether I write about it or not, life is going to keep speeding past, especially now that we have a daughter who’s engaged.

Had Rich and I been more analytical (and a tad less passionate) Caroline wouldn’t be here.  Life for us at the time was a sketchy affair—two kids already to our credit, one still an infant, and Rich a new law student making zero dollars an hour, we weren’t exactly ready to welcome anyone else into our family.  But that’s what I wanted.  It wasn’t a decision based on logic, and so when I miscarried, I didn’t’ view it as us dodging a very expensive bullet.  This was a decision based on love.  Whether it made sense or not, I wanted another baby. 

And so, Caroline came into our world, arriving toward the end of Rich’s second year of law school, and right before I started graduate school.  She was beautiful, and blessed with a sweet disposition.  We called her our snuggle buggle, and pled with her to stay four forever, because she was such an adorable preschooler.  Time with her in our home slipped away fast.  Like sucking a milkshake through a straw, it was gone before we knew it.  Now Caroline is engaged, a temple date has been set, and part of me is wanting to point out that, logically speaking, they’re too young, too poor, and have too much schooling still ahead of them.  But this is a decision based on love, and if Caroline’s life has taught me anything, it’s that from those decisions spring forth life’s greatest blessings.

Whatever hardships we endured from deciding to have Caroline I’ve forgotten.  I’m sure there were missed trips to the mall, and lovely cuts of roast beef I couldn’t justify buying.  Certainly there was stuff we missed out on because of that baby girl.  But now we have stuff.  We have plenty of stuff, and we also have Caroline.  We have her kindness, her humor, her music, her beauty, and sometimes her sass.  We have pure joy, and even Neiman Marcus doesn’t carry that.

Love Stories

Sometimes I feel like I take care of my blog the way I do my chia pet—only occasionally giving it what it needs.  But it’s time to turn over a new leaf, time to post like never before!  Not only is Valentine’s Day just around the corner, so is the release of my new book, a romantic comedy for the LDS market called, Letters To My Future Husband (available at Deseret Book, Seagull Book, Amazon and Cedarfort.com.) 

Maybe I should have written a thriller replete with double agents and military acronyms (there’s always next time) but I wanted to take on a project that would be fun.  So I set aside my manuscript, Yarn Balls, A Brief History, and got to work telling the story of Sophia Stark, an advertising executive who thinks she’s met her future husband.  Griffin, her boyfriend, is everything she’s been looking for as long as she doesn’t look too closely.  Once she does that, her certainty about him starts to waver.

Sophia’s road to finding true love is not without potholes.  For some, love runs a smooth course.  They meet their future spouse in the lunch line in grade school and never question they’re destined to be together.  That’s not the way it worked for me.  In the lunch line all I got was shoved against a booger-covered vent called the cootie corner.  Romance did not blossom there. 

It was during my freshman year at BYU that I met my future husband (Talk about original.)  We were introduced by a mutual friend on the steps of the Cannon Center, and my first impression of Rich was that he had a nice smile.  His first impression of me was, Hmm, she’s wearing a boy scout jacket (I was trying to find myself at the thrift store.)  That moment led to others, taking pictures together in a photo booth at the mall when we hardly knew each other, going on walks together, and writing letters, lots and lots of letters while one or the other of us was on a mission. 

Was Rich everything I was looking for in a husband?  No.  I was looking for an Abercrombie model with an Australian accent and a vault filled with gold krugerrands.  Rich was a sousaphone player from L.A. with an old Volvo.  But the closer I looked, the more I realized, Hey, this guy might be the one for me.  Twenty-five years and seven kids later, the jury is still out, but I’m pretty sure I made the right decision. 

Okay, so I know I made the right decision, and not just because of the time we’ve spent together and the number of our progeny.  I know it because even in stressful situations he treats me with kindness, he’s a great dad, and he thinks I’m gorgeous without makeup without Botox without even brushing my hair.  True, his eyeglass prescription probably needs adjusting, but still, throughout our marriage he has called me beautiful, and as we advance toward being card carrying members of the AARP, I don’t see that (or his glasses) changing.  Nice guys do not finish last, they finish the dishes when you’re tired, finish putting the kids to bed when you need a break, finish an argument with I love you.  They finish by you, with you, and for you.

Brave New World

There is an assumption I live with, a cozy little thing I feed a steady diet of hardly glanced-at headlines and confidence-boosting thoughts, like the  fact that the last time an enemy invaded America dentures could give you splinters.  I live with this assumption because it makes it easier to hop on planes, enter public places, and occasionally draw controversial cartoons.  Okay, so I’ve never done that last one.  But I live with it because we’re number one!  Or, at least, that’s what we were the last time I checked.  Like I said, I only glance at the headlines.

But, lately, my assumption isn’t doing so well—that rosy expectation I’ve cultivated over the years that terrorism, though a problem, will never reach my family has started to crumble.  The pictures of grief and fear in Paris bring other pictures to my mind—pictures of towers burning, smoke billowing, and people fleeing as firemen rushed toward danger.  When the Charlie Hedbo staff left for work the other day, they, like the people who worked on the upper floors of the World Trade Center, were expecting it to be just another day.  But it wasn’t.  It was their last day.

This grim reality has forced me to set aside my sunny assumption, and realize that if this could happen to them, it could happen to me or someone I love.  So what is a mother to do?  My first impulse is to retreat.  If other people’s children are going to be terrorists, mine are going to be bored—just a trip to the general store each morning for a few essentials and then back inside the bomb shelter.  The world is just too dangerous.  But, ah, the world—despite its perils it’s a beautiful place, and that beauty is something I want my children to not only see, but be.  I want them to claim this planet, to experience its wonders and make it a better place.  I want them to stand against it becoming the playground of thugs--a thing they cannot accomplish if I’m keeping them safe behind reinforced concrete.  Sure, there are certain places it would be foolish for them to visit (we’re not booking a family trip to Afghanistan,) but a kosher deli in Paris—they should be able to go there.  And so they must advance into the world, not retreat from it, because if other people’s children are going to take an oath to protect and defend our way of life, then the least I can do is teach mine to be brave.

 

While You Were Sleeping

Recently, while helping Peter [4] step into his underwear he said to me, “Why don’t you get a job?  You don’t do anything.”  I tried to tell him that my job was taking care of him, shaping his character so that he became a productive member of society, but this seemed to him a flimsy excuse.  And so it often is with the mom job—appreciation is in short supply.  Which is fine.  When Peter is sworn in as president that will be thanks enough.  Of course, on the day of his inauguration he’ll probably hand me an application and tell me that the White House kitchen staff is hiring.  “Seriously, Mom,” he’ll most likely say while patting my brittle shoulder, “you’ve schlepped long enough.  It’s time to get to work.”

So what is it that I do?  What does any Mom do?  One thing’s for sure, time is always in short supply.  Laundry, cleaning, errands, meal prep, etc. has a way of swallowing a day, leaving little time for anything else.  And yet, moms, more often than not, find ways to accomplish so much more.  Whether home schooling or running a cottage industry, stay-at-home moms have a stronger work ethic than my little man suspects.   Even I—Peter’s loafing mother—manage to squeeze in a little “work” during the course of the day, and next month proof of that work will be hitting LDS bookstores in the form of a romantic comedy entitled, Letters To My Future Husband (Cedar Fort.)  It’s been ten years since I’ve published in the LDS market—a dry spell Peter, no doubt, considers proof of my couch-potato ways.  But the truth is during that time I’ve been working—working on raising our family, and improving my craft. 

While Peter has slept, played, watched TV, and shouted for another bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, I’ve written.  I’ve written in parks, at ballet rehearsals, and after-school car lines.  I’ve written when the house was quiet and when it’s been chaotic.  From start to finish it’s taken me roughly a year to write this book, and while I’m excited about the finished product, I know it’s unlikely to impress Peter, which is fine.  If that were my intention I would have started my own landscaping business, because nothing gets respect from him like a riding lawn mower.

Besides, I don't want respect.  I want sloppy kisses and bear hugs and shouts in the morning for me to come snuggle.  So I'll just continue doing "nothing," and writing when I get a chance, because job or not, I like the perks that come with it.