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.

49 Reasons We Don't Throw Rich Into A Volcano, Assuming We're Incan.

1.        He’s a lawyer, he’ll slow down the process with paperwork.

2.       He’s friendly.  He’ll have to stop and talk to everyone along the way.

3.       He whistles.  This is a solemn occasion.

4.       He’s got nice teeth, which practically counts as a carnival side show in our society.

5.       He doesn’t have a temper.  The gods are looking more for someone like that angry chef, Gordon Ramsay.

6.       He’s fairly flatulent and we’ve got enough explosives to worry about just with the volcano.

7.       He’s scheduled for a massage.

8.       His wife doesn’t know the value of his flashlight collection.

9.       He’s almost finished writing his novel, If You Sacrifice me, I’m Taking You With Me.

10.   He’s got court on Tuesday.

11.   He alone knows how to clean the drains in his house.

12.   He’s a Republican, his party needs him.

13.   He once ate a steak the size of place mat.

14.   Fantasy Island was filmed near where he grew up, and as child he did stunt double work for Tattoo.

15.   He considers himself a Brady Bunch scholar.

16.   He endured a few Saturdays so boring as a child he resorted to watching Hee Haw.

17.   The gods are looking for a virgin, and he . . . let’s just say we’d be stretching the truth.

18.   The gods hate it when we stretch the truth.

19.   He’s not fond of hot showers, let alone hot lava.

20.   He doesn’t swear.  We’d like a few expletives as he bounces off rocks on his way to the bottom.

21.   He doesn’t drink which is a total buzzkill at the pre-sacrifice party.

22.   He hasn’t picked up his socks.

23.   He’s got to get his hair cut.

24.   The steam from the lava would fog his glasses.

25.   He’s got ears cuter than a hippos, and how many of us can say that?

26.   He’s not caught up on Dancing With The Stars.

27.   He still perfecting his cha cha.

28.   He’s nice.  The gods don’t mind a lawyer, but they draw the line when it comes to a nice lawyer.

29.   He donates blood. (Not really, but he says he’s willing to if it will get him off the hook.)

30.   He’s got three kids in college.  Hmmm…maybe sacrifice one of them.

31.   The hike up might be a bit much for him, since his calves are still hurting from his bike ride across Oregon.

32.   He’s been banned for life from medieval festivals because he has a sword that slices through boulders like they’re butter.

33.   He’s sensitive.  Being sacrificed will hurt his feelings.

34.   He’s got tickets to Comic Con.

35.   He’s never thanked Barbara Streisand for going into retirement.

36.   He’s considering trying his luck as stand-up comedian.

37.   He’s a summer, which would totally clash with lava.

38.   He’s got blue eyes, lovely blue eyes.

39.   He’s just started learning the accordion, a dying art form.

40.    He’s available to play at weddings of the hearing impaired.

41.   He’s just started to shift from buying flashlights to those really long horns that they blow on the mountain tops in Switzerland.

42.   He says he’s afraid of heights.

43.   He says his tummy hurts.

44.   He says he’s just not feeling it.

45.   He hasn’t brushed his teeth.

46.   He hasn’t been to Branson, Missouri.

47.   He once started a bonfire made up entirely of Hall and Oates records.

48.   He wants to be around when David Hasselhoff makes a comeback.

49.   And the best reason of all . . . IT’S HIS BIRTHDAY!

Gone With The Wind

The first year Scarlett ran in the Red Ribbon Run she wasn’t exactly dressed for racing success.  Having somehow avoided this event with my older children—a competition in which kids from all the schools in our city race according to grade level—it didn’t occur to me that maybe she shouldn’t wear jeans, hand-me-down sneakers two sizes too small, or the adult-size race T-shirt they’d given her (child sizes were reserved for children with parents smart enough to preregister.)  Sure, seeing Scarlett and her fellow kindergarteners race was going to be cute, but to be honest, I just wanted to get it over with so I could go hit some yard sales.  I didn’t give her any running tips, didn’t bother with a pep talk.  As she walked toward the starting line with the other five year olds, I yawned and checked my phone for messages.

The Red Ribbon Run at that time was held in a stadium.  Beginning with a sprint across the field, the runners would follow their guides out the exit, and not be seen again until the final stretch toward the finish line inside the arena.  I lost sight of Scarlett  before the starting gun sounded.  As that sea of kindergarten cuteness raced to the exit, I tried to find her--the runner in jeans--but couldn’t.  I was too far away and they were, though moving, a jumble.  

And so they left the stadium and I chatted with a few parents sitting nearby, until it occurred to me that I should probably check to see if any kids were coming toward the finish line, and that’s when I saw that Scarlett had already crossed it.  Huh?  Had she missed the exit and never left the arena? No, she’d left the arena, she’d run the race, and finished in third place.  Wearing jeans, Scarlett had won her first trophy!

Scarlett liked winning that trophy and announced that the next year she was going to win another one.  I panicked.  Should I warn her that we don’t always get to win in life? Tell her that sometimes other people are faster and get the trophy, which is okay, because the important thing is participating?  I didn’t want her to doubt herself, but I didn’t want her to think she had another trophy in the bag.  Not sure what to do, I did nothing, and Scarlett came in second.

The second place trophy was bigger than the third place trophy, which Scarlett preferred, and so she told us she planned to win first place the next year.  I told myself I couldn’t do it—watch my daughter race and possibly come up empty handed, especially when she was so convinced first place was hers for the taking.  It was too much stress for a person with my delicate constitution.  Okay, my constitution wasn’t particularly delicate.  Still, I had been the one biting my nails at the last race; it was time for Rich to take over.  And so Rich attended his first Red Ribbon Run and saw Scarlett win second place again, while I, too scared to look, heard about it on the phone.

I knew it was the cowardly approach—using our four-year old as a reason to stay away, but as the next Red Ribbon Run drew near, that was my game plan.  Rich would go, and I’d stay home with Peter who would have ended up bored or lost if we’d taken him.  And I probably would have kept to that plan if I hadn’t run (literally) into Bob.  Out for my morning run, Bob, asked me as I ran by if I was planning on being in the race that weekend.  Since he didn’t have a serial killer vibe, I stopped, told him that I wasn’t, but that my kids would be running the next week in the Red Ribbon Run.

Bob explained that as a member of the local running club he would be at the Red Ribbon Run helping out.  “So I’ll see you there,” he said.

“Maybe,” I said sheepishly.

Bob cocked an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t you be there?”

And so I told him.  I told him about how she’d gotten a trophy every year, and that I was so worried about her coming in fourth or fifth or sixth that I dreaded the race.

“Disappointment,” he said with a wave of his hand, “she’ll face it at some point in life, but you should be there.”

Ugh.  I hate it when random strangers are right. 

Saturday, I went to race and watched Scarlett win third place.  She was happy, a little miffed that she’d been in first place right up until the last twenty five feet of the race, but still happy.  Later at the finish line I ran into Bob.  After reminding him of our previous conversation, I told him that Scarlett had won third place, and that I’d been here to see it.

He high-fived me.  “Now that’s the real victory,” he said.  "Her childhood will pass in a flash.”

Yes, it will, Bob, and I intend to see it, even the races.