A day after Boxing Day miracle

While cleaning out the junk drawer, I found my wedding ring. Hooray! It's been gone for months.

So, be inspired. Go clean something. You might find things.

Thanks, Duracell

My baby is teething. The end.

I don't really need to say more than that, do I? No, but I'm going to.

With my son, teething was a breeze. I'd notice him sucking extra fervently on his binky for a while, and then, presto! A tooth. I was really surprised one day to feel a molar poking out of nowhere one day. That kid birthed a molar and scarcely complained.

Not so with baby number two. This week she's produced one tooth but is working on about three more. For a couple weeks she's been fussy and waking up at night. Oh, and she has a cold. Try a coughing teething baby. So this week, after two truly awful nights, I took her to the doctor, certain she had an ear infection. There must be something causing this ruckus, right? The nurse agreed with me--she's got classic signs of earache. Long term runny nose, fussy eating, fussy sleeping, scratching at the ears.

Her ears are perfect, the doctor said. He sent me home with a prescription for lidocaine for my troubles, which I felt pretty good about as I paid the pharmacist 95 cents for it. Then I remembered the copay. Maybe if I sell it on the street for five dollars an ounce I'll break even. I'm sure there's a big at-home dentistry crowd that would really enjoy some good lidocaine that comes with impossible directions. Because you tell me what baby is going to let you stick something in her mouth and hold it in place for sixty seconds. Sixty seconds is like three years in baby time.

But I did pick up something else at the store that really helped. New batteries for the swing. It's the one place she'll sleep reliably. Thanks for the needed rest, Duracell.

Always check your turkey

Sorry it's been a while. This post will have to be quick. You can probably tell by the vast expanse of time since my last post that I've been working. Still am, in fact. It will be a long haul of early mornings where I hope the kids will let me get a couple of hours in before they wake up. Daylight savings has not been kind to this fond dream of mine. This morning the boy was up at 5:30.

You can also tell I've been working by looking at my face. I think there is a direct correlation between the number of zits I have and the amount of time I sit at the computer desk, resting my face on my hand. I've tried, but I can't stop. When I'm working, I'm a face toucher.

Sorry, complexion. I'll just have to comfort myself with my new knowledge that karaoke originated in Japan (how did I not know that?) and that the current prime minister is Kan Naoto. (See me later for more Japan-related trivia. I'm currently on page 301 of 510 pages full of the stuff.)

On Sunday we had a little early Thanksgiving, because I figured we ought to eat the turkey in our freezer before it had been there a year. I bought it on sale after Thanksgiving last year, thinking we'd have a yummy dinner sometime last winter. And then life intervened, with all sorts of wonderful interruptions.

I've never cooked a turkey, so I looked online. I found this recipe that made wonderful claims of moist, delicious turkey. Your turkey will not be dry, the recipe promised. You were supposed to separate the skin from the turkey without removing it, so you could smear melted butter directly on the meat and the skin would lock all the flavor in. Well, have you ever tried to do that? I failed. I used my kitchen scissors to try to separate the two, but they were very stubborn. And you know what? My turkey was moist and delicious anyway. Take that, Internet.

But, after the gravy was made, the turkey carved and eaten, and as my husband was dismantling the rest of the turkey to be stored, he said...."Are these...scissors in here?"

I cooked my scissors with my turkey. I'd put the scissors down to do something, then gave up/forgot about what I was doing. The poor kitchen scissors (my good ones, too) did not survive. The plastic was warped and cracked from spending five hours in the oven. It was a sad day.

So, this Thanksgiving, don't worry about all the poor turkeys being slaughtered for our gluttony. Just make sure all beloved kitchen utensils have been removed from the pan before you roast it.

Convolutedly inconsolable

Lately my kids and I have been fighting. Clara's been teething, Nathan has not been wanting to nap, and I'm trying to make them behave in a way that doesn't make me want to pull my hair out. All day and (feels like) all night, battling. They've been winning, and I'm a sore loser.

I've been reading this book by Roy Blount Jr. lately, Dispatches from Up South. Here's a tidbit that reminds me of me this week:

I noticed that a woman I grew up with, hadn't seen for thirty years probably, had showed up to hear my talk. We had a drink afterward, and she told me, "That was interesting, how angry you said your mother was. My mother was always furious at home."

 "No. Really? But we always thought she was always so cheerful."

"That's what we thought your mother was."

Wow. Could it be that all the mothers I knew growing up were perkily lightsome to their neighbors and friends and convolutedly inconsolable by their loved ones at home?

 I know that's the battle of being a mom. You're there for your kids--all the time. And they can make you kind of crazy. But I don't want to be that mom, angry all the time, making the house not a fun place to be.

There's always next week, right? It's bound to be better than this one.

Alone with my thoughts (I wish)

I don't remember where I found this, but I loved it. It's from a letter Emily Dickinson wrote to Thomas Wentworth Higginson:

How do most people live without any thoughts. There are many people in the world (you must have noticed them in the street) How do they live. How do they get strength to put on their clothes in the morning

Unusual punctuation aside (I've left it as it was printed), it's true. How do people get strength to get through their days without any thoughts in their head? There's always something on: tv, radio, internet, texts, something, someone, always poking their head in. I notice on the days when I spend too much time with the TV on, or too much time on the Internet, that I'm crankier, my head is not clear, and I don't want to do anything. I'm stuck in other people's thoughts instead of focusing on my own.

I've noticed this in my son as well. One day I found him sitting in our living room, staring at the blue wall, pretending to watch tv. How weird is that? The more we watch tv, the more he wants. We had a Thomas DVD from the library a couple weeks ago, and as long as he remembered it was in the house, he wanted it on. All the time. He'd watch it for hours if I let him. I was very glad I had the excuse of taking it back to the library to end that little phase.

I've realized this is especially true with spiritual things. I loved (I think it was?) Elder Christofferson's talk about how everything we do in the gospel should be about inviting the Spirit to be with us. That's hard. Thinking about spiritual things is hard when my job wakes me up in the morning and stays with me until I go to sleep. Kids, housework, some leisure time (maybe), where does the spiritual fit in? Back in the lovely days when I had one child who could feed himself, I'd read the Ensign over breakfast. Those days when I can do that now, though, are hard to find. If I could find a better balance, I bet I'd find more joy in serving.

How do you guys do it?

A mathematical illustration of housekeeping

Over the last nine months, I've come to realize something. The amount of dishes and laundry increases exponentially with each child added to the family. Exponentially. Especially dishes. Especially with a bottle-fed baby.

I've come up with a mathematical equation to illustrate what I mean.

2¹ = 2
When I was a swinging single college student, this was my equation. Where two equals one unit of laundry and one unit of dishes, to the power of one--my single self.

2² = 4
Then I got married. Two people, double the housework. Simple. But, still, two adults to do the work.

2³ = 8

Then we had a baby. And the housework somehow doubled again. And darned if that baby didn't refuse to clean up after himself.

2⁴ = 16

Two kids? The work doubled. Again. There's no way two parents can keep up with a toddler's boundless need to empty everything in reach. At least we've gotten out of bottle feedings every three hours during the night. Only to graduate to adventures in baby food.

2⁵ = 32

When, in some unspecified period of the future, we become a family of five...Let's not think about it. I don't know how single parents do it.

I know, this is silly. And really, I wouldn't trade my life right now. And my husband is really wonderful to help out around the house after a day at work. I just thought I'd put throw out numbers to show the amount of work we as parents don't get paid for. Because a housewife deserves a little respect too, right? Right?

Reasons I will never be a mommy blogger

Dear blogging friends,
I love you. You know I do. But, you don't blog very often. Don't be offended; you know it's true. And so, to ward against the days I log on and there are no new posts from anyone, I've ventured forth to find new blogs.

And on my way, I've discovered a few characteristics you need if you want to be a (money-earning) blogger. (All examples are completely made up by me and are not true. I totally brush my teeth at least once every day.)

1. Hyperbole. You have to give your readers some reason to read, so everything is of epic proportions. Like, "I haven't brushed my teeth in three days. I'm a poster child for periodontal disease."
2. Outlandish phrases. As any creative writing class will tell you, you have to keep the language fresh. Don't use hackneyed or expectable phrases. So instead of saying "I noticed, too late, that I had bad breath," you would say, "After a long and animated conversation with my new neighbor, I felt sure we'd become sugar-lending friends in no time. Then I noticed a stench, coming from my own mouth, that smelled like several generations of dung beetles had been living out their days inside."
3. Unusually Capitalized Phrases. As those who've seen my Facebook recently know, I've already got this one down. Last week I went and picked tomatoes with my sister and mom. And I found an extremely large tomato that my sister said was the size and shape of her baby. And so I named it Fetus Tomato. And that is a phrase that just begs for capitalization.
4. No sense of privacy. Does this one need any explanation? No. But some bloggers put it all out there, from the icky pregnancy stories to the fight they just had with their mother-in-law.

This fourth one is the reason that I will never be a famous blogger. I can't help it. I'm an editor. I edit. When I was about nine, my sister and I got for Christmas these framed name certificates, that hung on the wall in the room we shared. It listed my name, which language it came from, the meaning, and different characteristics of my name. And one of the characteristics of my name (I don't know where these came from, by the way) was "discreet." So hanging on my bedroom wall, where I could see it every day, it was infused into my psyche. Discreet. Discreet. Discreet.

Maybe this is where I got it from, but I think of myself as being afflicted with a sense of relevancy. Yes, this can be a good thing. But it can also be an affliction, because sometimes I meet people who are not likewise afflicted. So I sometimes hear what an acquaintance's mother's sister-in-law had for lunch. And I can't keep from thinking, why does this person think I need to know this?

So. Discretion and relevance. I can't get away from them. I love blogging and sharing parts of what I'm doing and thinking. But I just wouldn't be comfortable putting it all out there. You don't need to hear about what I ate for lunch or the last time I cried so hard my eyes hurt afterward. Sharing too much kind of makes me feel like I might explode. That's an anxiety I probably ought to work through, but until then, I will continue the editing of my daily life to share with you here.

The easiest post ever.

Well, I'm back. I've been neglecting this blog, so here goes. I've got too much to catch up on post-vacation for a real post, though. I've got a house to clean, kids to tend, some chapters about British sitcoms to clean up, and I just decided last night to hurry and read a 450-page book for book club. Tuesday. It was supposed to be held last week when I was gone, but it gost postponed. And Bethann had brought her copy to church yesterday, so what's a girl to do? I'm already almost 200 pages in.

So here's a post from a blog that I read sometimes. It is spot on, and I figured I couldn't say it better. Except, I'm not so candid on my blogs as she is on hers. To each her own. Enjoy.

Shy Girl

Get a drink before you read this

At my doctor's appointment the other day, I found out I am still eligible to donate blood. Yay! Nothing makes you feel like a good person better than allowing someone to stick a sinfully large needle into your arm and take something that keeps you alive.

So this morning when the Red Cross called, I actually answered the phone. Because the Red Cross calls us, um, a lot. Like every eight weeks. They seem strangely eager to get their hands on our blood. I think the Red Cross may be an organization of vampires trying to go legit. And for the last while I've been not answering the phone, because we've been busy and I've been thinking I couldn't donate. A couple weekends ago we got home to this message: "We're really low on your type of blood, and we were wondering, could you come in and help us out?" And that just made me feel bad. I know my blood type (AB+) is rare, and how can you ignore a personalized blood-type plea? So yesterday my husband, and today me, went in to donate.

And that makes twice this week that I've been told I have low blood pressure. Hm. I just thought the nurse at the doctor's office and the arm band with the velcro wouldn't stay fastened were being dumb. "Um, are you feeling dizzy?" "No." "Cause your blood pressure is kinda low." But that Red Cross lady was totally authoritative. Turns out being dehydrated does affect your body. I have really got to get better about drinking water. Lesson learned, everybody: don't leave it to young medical professionals to tell you you need to drink more water. Young punks.

P.S. To family members who like to worry: don't. It's not very low, or they wouldn't have let me donate today. So, if a organization of possible vampires is willing to take my blood, I must be fine.

Maintenance fatigue

The dentist office is one of my most unfavorite places. Ever. Mostly because I have bad teeth. So the dentist office has been a series of unpleasant memories. When I was little, maybe five or so, they gave me a little mask to breathe in, it was orange and smelled like oranges. I don't remember the anxiety that led me to need this calming dentist orange rubbery mask, but I do remember I got to take it home. Or the time they decided I didn't need any numbing, because it was such a little cavity that it would be not a big deal. It was a big deal. Or the time my brother Eric took me to get a cavity done, and then we stopped at a park on the way home to do a photography assignment. I tried not to smile in any of the pictures because of my half-numb face, but he caught me in one. It's a grotesque, piratey, half-smile grimace that sums up most dentist trips for me. Not to mention the disastrous results when most dental procedures and my overblown gag reflex collide.

I made myself go to the dentist today. Six months ago I used being on bed rest as an excuse to skip my dentist appointment (finally, I thought of something good from that five weeks). So today, there was a nice year-long buildup of plaque along my gumline. And the hygienist was very thorough in cleaning it all up.

Side note: I do not understand why people are dental hygienists. Maybe in some communist society where I'm assigned my life's work, sure, I could spend my days in other people's mouths. But I'm pretty sure kissing would be ruined if I were that intimately acquainted with the ravages of plaque and oral decay that go on in there. Hourly wage hygienists have to do all the grody work, and then the dentist sails in, pokes your just-cleaned teeth for three minutes and tells you he needs to redo a filling. His job's simple as that. I think there's a serious pay disparity going on here.

So, while I was trying to think about anything other than the hands in my mouth, I thought of something I've been thinking of lately. The sheer number of things we need to take care of our bodies. This morning I used: baby nail clippers, regular nail clippers, toenail clippers (I made the rounds). Shampoo, conditioner, face wash, body wash, hair gel, toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant, acne cream, moisturizer, lotion, foundation, eyeshadow, mascara, eyebrow defining powder, chapstick. And this was a non-fancy makeup day. Is it any wonder I feel like I have a drugstore on my back?

And today I added this list: the number of professional visits we need. Annual exams, biannual teeth cleanings, well child visits, and something new this year, hematologist visits. (Which, by the way, my hematology office is also an oncology office, so whenever I go in, there's a roomful of feeble, in various stages of balding, cancer patients. I end up just feeling obscenely healthy. Awkward.)

And then we need clothes. The right clothes. We need clothes to stay warm, cool, covered from the sun, modest, stylish (the last one is not my strong point). We need a different pair of shoes for every occasion. And accessories. Oh, the accessories we need. Have you noticed I don't wear many? Especially since I had kids, accessories are just too much work.

Whew. These darn physical bodies require so much upkeep. Sometimes I wish we lived in pioneer times, when all this was less necessary. But, I do enjoy having teeth, and having teeth through adulthood used to be pretty rare. So I guess I'll stick with modern times. Dental hygienists and all.

The Shame and the Glory

This is a comment I saw on a blog this afternoon:

Gratitude for the fantastic info best now. I take pleasure in your subject material and will are provided back in the near future.

I'm really hoping that English is not this poster's first, or even third, language. Because, wow. Seeing this made me happy. Because as badly as I think I write sometimes, I've got nothing compared to the above.

Now, I am not against typos. I even commit some sometimes. My brother informs me gleefully every time he finds one. But I do ask, if you want someone to read your stuff, that you not inflict them with word vomit. But that is both the glory and the shame of the Internet: people who refuse to think, or even proofread, have a voice. Thank you, Al Gore, for inventing the Internet, where all of humanity's verbal gaffes show up in print.

An existential crisis

Lately I stopped reading a certain blog. Not yours, so don't worry. A certain blog written by a mom in the Midwest. Sometimes she had good things to say, but mostly I got annoyed with her overuse of one-word sentences. She was just trying to be pithy. Meaningful. Overdramatic.

Lately I've been having trouble sleeping (not last night, though. hallelujah.) Mostly I lie awake for an hour or so, just thinking and wishing I could be sleeping. And for part of that thinking, I write mental blog posts. They're really good. And then in the morning, once I have finally managed to get to sleep, I can't remember a thing about them. But I figure it doesn't really matter, because who cares...I'm a little tired of this blog. Hence the existential crisis.

If my name were Brady I could actually explain to you what existentialism is. But I'm not Brady, so I can't. Mainly I'm just tired of listening to my own voice, and being either mundane, cliche, or preachy. Maybe when I'm in a better mood I'll have something to say. We'll see.

Self Diagnosis, or The unavoidable jumble of things

I may be sick. Here are my symptoms.

• I'm tired, and even if I want to take a nap, and my husband tells me to take a nap, I don't. I know if I lay down, I will lie there thinking of the dust accumulating on the bookshelves, the weeds in the flower garden, the piles of junk mail that need sorting. The kids that seem to think they need attention.
• I wake up in the early morning to feed the baby, and I can't go back to sleep. I lie awake, thinking of things. Things that don't matter.
• I start cleaning up after a meal, and decide to take the dirty towels down to the laundry room. Once in the basement, I see I have left four (four!) pairs of my shoes down there. I gather them up, carry them to my bedroom, and put them in the closet. Then I notice that somehow Nathan's bath toys are sitting on my dresser, so I take them back to the tub. Repeat with variations on a theme, for about an hour. End result, my house is cleaner in very small, very unnoticeable ways, without a single room looking like I just spent an hour cleaning. I have spent the entire time flitting around doing small tasks without getting anything actually done.
• I have to make lists so I can remember what I'm supposed to be doing. If I can get the satisfaction of crossing it off a list, it's a lot more likely to get done.

So what do you think? I think I have a common form of multitaskitis, also known as mom syndrome.

***

I wrote the above a while ago, and then saved the post to finish later. And good thing. I've been doing better at the multitaskitis, and with actually getting things done. I think it's because I've begun mothering myself by giving myself chores: Monday laundry, Tuesday mop the kitchen, Wednesday bathroom....Now I just need to give myself consequences for not doing my chores.

But my house is still cluttery. I can't get away from clutter, it seems. It's in my blood (anyone seen my grandma's house?). I'm just not that organized. I think it's why I dislike knickknacks so much (although I still have a few). I love this quote from Thoreau: "I had three pieces of limestone on my desk, but I was terrified to find that they required to be dusted daily, when the furniture of my mind was all undusted still, and threw them out the window in disgust" (Walden). I'd much rather spend my little free time reading a book than dusting my belongings.

But with kids, I can't get away from the clutter. They need toys, and they need all the toys to be spread through the house all the time: four cars in the kitchen cabinet, a fire truck in mom and dad's bed, books in the laundry hamper. All of these things have happened in the last week. Every time I clean it's like a treasure hunt.

So I might as well embrace it. The other day Nathan had a good ten minutes walking around with a reusable grocery bag on his head. He walked around saying "green ghost." Ten minutes of fun that wouldn't have been had if I had put the bag away on Saturday, when it was last used. Embrace the clutter that encourages my child to use his imagination. That's a good thing, right?

In favor of hail

Now, I'm as much in favor of good weather as the next gal. But I do love a good house-shaking storm once in a while. Lest we forget that usually, Mother Nature is very good to us.

Spring storms are kind of depressing, but I still love them. I remember once saying to a friend, "Isn't it a beautiful day?" And he thought I was crazy, because it was a wet gloomy day in the interminably cold dreary days of a Logan springtime. But I could see a tree out the library window, whose leafless branches were a vibrant dark brown against the wet gray of pavement and buildings. On sunny days I never noticed that tree.

It reminds me of this poem by Ezra Pound:

In a Station of the Metro

 The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

Normally I'm not a huge poetry fan, but this one has stayed with me, probably because I can relate to it. The beauty you see in the midst of ugliness has more impact than uniform beauty. And beauty is everywhere, if you can see it.

Of course, though, I can't wait for summer storms. Those are my favorite. Summer storms have warm raindrops that compel you to go outside and enjoy it. Maybe wrestle your next-door cousin in a mud puddle, or jump on the trampoline with your grownup sister.

Rain gives life to plants. And memories.

 

Words to live by

At a Relief Society party a few weeks ago, the speaker said one thing that stuck out to me.

"Be kinder than necessary, for everyone is battling something."

Physics and I just don't get along

I've been reading a book called A Short History of Nearly Everything. When I found out about this book, I thought, "I would like to learn about nearly everything. Seems like a good use of my time." It turns out, though, that they left one important word out of the title: Science.

Science has not been fun since about fifth grade. My science educational path has been littered with characters from the boring (the man whose biology teaching position was merely a placeholder for his career as a track coach), to the creepy (the teacher who was rumored to have once made girls do pushups so he could look down their shirts), to the hopelessly unhelpful (the horse-faced teacher who was convinced we could learn physics from our textbooks, videos, and lab work, and refused to answer any questions). All I remember from my college gen ed science class is that once the professor dressed up like Gregor Mendel, and once he brought in floaty pool noodles as his "dancing chromosomes." His techniques worked to some extent, because I know who Gregor Mendel is (a scientist/monk who was the father of genetics), but I don't remember what a chromosome does. Apparently they dance.

So, now that you know the state of the relationship between me and Mr. Science, let me tell you that I loved this book.

Partly it's the writing; the author is British and I am a sucker for British diction. Partly it's that he actually writes so things are halfway understandable. But it's just so interesting to read about what scientists know, and how they know it.

Things I learned from this book:

• The moon is bigger than Pluto.
• Einstein did basically nothing during the second half of his career. He tried to come up with a Grand Unified Theory of physics, and failed.
• Not only is Yellowstone is a supervolcano that if it ever erupted, we would all die here in Utah (already knew that), but it is the only supervolcano in the middle of a continent, and they don't know why it's here or if it will ever erupt again (fingers crossed). Also, the earth's crust is slowly moving, so the hot spot that is Yellowstone used to be elsewhere in Wyoming, and in another couple million years, it will be in another place entirely.
• Our bodies, and every other surface in the world, are covered in millions of microscopic organisms, bacteria, fungi, mites, etc. The thought makes me want to shower very thoroughly several times a day.
• Our bodies can't live without water (we're what, 80% water?) but it's components, oxygen and hydrogen, are both explosive. Also, why we can't drink salt water (it causes severe dehydration and kidney failure; our bodies can't metabolize that much salt).

The book lost me, though, in the chapters about particle physics. Listen:

"In at attempt to draw everything together, physicists have come up with something called superstring theory. This postulates that all those little things like quarks and leptons that we had previously thought of as particles are actually "strings"--vibrating strands of energy that oscillate in eleven dimensions, consisting of the three we know already plus time and seven other dimensions that are, well, unknowable to us."

What? If these dimensions are unknowable, how can we know they exist? And why eleven? Why not eleventy million? If they are unknowable, one number is much like another, at least to me. I'm in total agreement with the author: "Anything scientists say about superstring theory begins to sound worryingly like the sort of thoughts that would make you edge away if conveyed to you by a stranger on a park bench."

So, particle physics aside, I feel like Mr. Science and I can be dinner-party friends.We'll meet occasionally, enjoy each other's company, and have interesting stories to tell each other.

Nathan would also recommend this book: it has wicked cool pictures.

Because I may have become a hermit

"A person is a personality because he belongs to a community. One has to be a member of a community to be a self."
  ---George Herbert Mead

I've been wanting to post, but have been busy. And what's been keeping me busy is what I've been wanting to post about. So, now that the boy is down for a nap and I've done a little catch-up on my housework, here goes.

The last couple of weeks I've been working on an editing project. I really enjoy doing this, because I like fixing little nit-picky things that no one else cares about, like making sure it's (to use a recent example) "cell phone" instead of "cellphone" or "cell-phone." I also enjoy it because I get to read interesting things. This book was called Free, Rich, and Miserable: The Failure of Success in America. Sound interesting? Well, it was. Mainly because I recognized so much of what I see around me in the book.

The book's premise is that capitalistic market forces have overwhelmed our lives, and so we think we need more and more to be happy. So be able to afford more, we work harder and longer and and as a result, our personal and family lives suffer. Then, to make up for the lack of satisfying personal connection, we buy more to make ourselves happy and to make up to the people in our lives that our relationships are less than satisfying.

Some points I liked:

• Forty years ago the average American had three close confidants that they could rely on in times of trouble. The average today? Zero.
• Because we are so busy working (with or without pay) and being productive, we don't find it worthwhile to attend to anything outside our immediate area of concern (e.g., visiting a neighbor in the hospital, or an elderly family member, or even a phone call to someone we know is having a hard time). 
• We rely on buying expensive gifts to show loved ones how much we care.
• Online interaction (like blogs and Facebook) is allowing us more interaction with a greater number of people, but that interaction is usually more superficial, and relationships are more disposable, than face-to-face relationships.
• Because of the pressures we feel to work more, produce more, and have more, the number of cases of anxiety and depression has skyrocketed in the last two decades. 
• And all of these things are exacerbated by the fact that, no matter what we have, it's never enough. We always need more: new clothes, a nicer car, a bigger house, a trip to Disneyland.

Does any of that sound familiar to you?

I see so much of this: I talk to people who say they don't have close friends, or that they would come out to church more if they knew people better, or that they don't think visiting teaching is important. I also see so much of this in my own life. My purpose in this post is to take a step back and see how I could improve, how I could have more fulfilling relationships and friendships; how I could meet my own needs and still attend to the needs of others. Because I am genuinely happier, my life is so much richer, when I take a few minutes to make a phone call to a friend I haven't seen in a while, or go visiting teaching and get to know somebody better. (Sorry about the harping on visiting teaching; because of my calling I see how vital it can be for some sisters; and I'm really a bad visiting teacher myself, so this is kind of a pep talk). Because I have so much room for improvement. And how ironic that I'm sending this out into the blogging void, instead of sharing this in an actual conversation. I'm a much better writer than I am a talker; has anyone else noticed that about me?

But, lest you think I'm preaching too much at you, let me say this. This book also made me feel a little bad, because I've been on a spending binge lately. I'll post pictures when I get all my newest possessions arranged nicely in my house.The last few months, spring fever, and not being able to go anywhere, have made me want new things. And boy, did I get some new things. They didn't make me happier, but they made my house seem homier (which, I'm ashamed to say, did make me a little happy). Pictures coming...

On Drinking

Do any of you have a drinking problem?

I do.

Mainly my problem is that I forget about it. There are days when, as I sit down to dinner, I realize I am fantastically thirsty. Because I haven't had anything to drink all day since the milk on my cereal. Since I usually don't sit down to eat lunch, this has been happening fairly often lately.

I didn't always have this problem. In high school, a friend and I decided to drink a lot of water. I would have to fill up my water bottle (and empty my bladder) between every class period. I had to carry around my backpack so I wouldn't be late to every class. In between fueling up and emptying out, there was no time to fight my way to my locker (this may be why I actually forgot my locker combination my senior year). In college, I still carried around a water bottle and drank frequently. And at my job, I always kept a bottle on my desk. Drinking was a good way to combat cubicle boredom.

But being at home, I forget to drink. And I'm thinking this is possibly why my cold has been dragging on for three weeks. Three weeks. 22 days, actually.

So today, I'm working on making a dent in the grape juice stockpile I have. I just mixed up a jar that was juiced in 2005 that my grandma gave me, because it needed to be used up. We haven't even begun on the juice I made last year. We've got to kick it in gear to make room for 2010 juice. So today, I will drink.

Current Mood: Annoyed

You know why I'm annoyed? It's not the fact that I was awakened at 1:30 am, was unable to get back to sleep although the baby was sleeping, and was still awake when the toddler got up at 4:30. Nope, that's not it. Or that my baby has decided to cry herself to sleep. Not that either.

I'm annoyed with my body. Darn tabernacle of flesh.

Up until about two and a half years ago, my body was wonderful. Dependable. Rarely sick. Sure, there were things I'd have changed about it (I'd really like new, non-splotchy skin) but basically my body and I got along.

When I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes during my first pregnancy, I felt betrayed. My body was no longer living up to its end of the bargain, which was: I'll feed it, do some measure of halfway regular excercise, and get enough sleep (that was the easy part). In return, my body would function as advertised.

But suddenly I was counting carbohydrates and poking my fingers four times a day to keep an eye on what my rogue body was doing.

Luckily, that resolved itself after delivery, but I had wised up: my body was not to be trusted. So during my second pregnancy, I was so good about my eating, I excercised every day, I was not going to repeat that awful diabetes experience again. And, I didn't.

My body had other plans for me. Low platelets and a previa are a bad combination. Let's not dwell on it.

My platelets had normalized enough for me to have an epidural, and I assumed that was that. At my postpartum visit, my doctor did some routine bloodwork, just to ensure that my platelets had normalized.

They hadn't. They had fallen. And so that's how, just when I thought I could be done seeing doctors for maybe two consecutive minutes, I went to a hematologist today. My low platelets could be any number of things: HIV, lupus, a vitamin deficiency, an inflamed spleen, a malfunctioning liver, etc. Sounds fun, huh? The doctor said my levels aren't low enough to require any treatment, and I don't have any symptoms, so I'm really not worried about it. They're just doing tests and keeping an eye on things. Which means....

More appointments. More needles. More babysitters.

Annoyed.

Perspective

For no particular reason, the other day I thought of a couple things people had written in my high school yearbook. It's been years since I've pulled them out and looked at them, but there's always that memorable entry that I can't help but remember. Here's two:

From a good friend, male: "...You're the smartest girl person I know...."
From a less-close friend, female: "You're so smart! And still so cute. How do you do it?"

Both of these comments came out of my high-profile status my senior year in high school. I qualified to be in a prestigious scholarship competition, and so I became every teacher's favorite, the principal learned who I was, they put my name up on the marquee, an article in the paper, all in the effort to make academics seem more important and glorifying. And so I became the Smart Girl.

Now, I do pride myself on being a Smart Person. But a Smart Girl? Why is that so distinctive? Why do girls think they have to act dumb to be cute? Girls do it; I've seen it. It's a little heartbreaking. I guess my discomfort with the fact that my smartness and my female-ness were so unusual, so remarkable, is what has made me remember those two comments from two friends, made in passing, but reflecting a general attitude that we don't stop to think about. 

So, I do enjoy being a Smart Person, with accomplishments and awards that at some distant point in the past people recognized what kind of brain I had. But, lest I make too much of myself, here is a point of view to make me laugh at myself. An excerpt from a blog I read this morning:

He had his whole family with him at his table and prior to his speech he had been holding his new daughter Rosie. He walked to the podium, grasped the sides and said, "I know you are all wondering how it feels to be the Pulitzer winner. Well, I'll tell ya. It's awfully hard to feel cool when you are continually being shat upon by another human being." He then stepped to the side so that we could see his crap stained pants.

A few months ago a single friend asked me what about motherhood had surprised me the most. And, since my son had recently been sick, I had a pretty good answer: "I never thought my reaction to vomit would be, 'Please, throw up on me (instead of the couch)! I'm washable!'" Motherhood challenges me in ways that I'll never get a diploma or an award for, but I'm perfectly content with a good hug. My son is a very good hugger. I hope he teaches his sister to do the same.

Because I didn't lose my brain when I became a mom

Last night, having been inspired to witty effusiveness by book club, I determined at long last that I would start this blog. And I came up with all sorts of witty, effusive things that I wanted to say. They were golden, I tell you. But they're all gone now. I've been thinking of starting a separate blog for some time, just to say things that I had to say, that I didn't really feel like putting on my family blog. I realize the distinction is moot, since most people will read both, but it was a distinction I wanted to make.

Sometimes, I like to write. And, my life being what it is, I don't do it very much. It's a change I miss especially since I graduated, and again since I quit my job. I don't sit down and create things anymore. I miss sitting down and thinking hard and deep about a topic, writing it down, and developing my thoughts into a cogent argument. I miss creating narratives that, even if no one else reads them, satisfy me. So this blog will be my place to do something to help me hold on to that core part of my being-ness, that has been neglected of late. And it may be something of a journal, since I'm much too lazy to pick up a pen.