Some weeks back, Nemesis gave a talk in church and then posted the text of her talk the following Monday. I thought it was a really nice and uplifting way to begin my Monday. And as I've tried to make this blog not just a record of the journey, but a log of the things I've learned, I think I will do the same. I'll post pictures later in the week of our fun weekend at the pumpkin patch and the apple orchard.
Text of talk dated 10/14/2007
Since getting married just a little over eight years ago, our family has moved nine times. These moves have taken us to very different parts of the country and all types of living arrangements. In the middle of all of this, we’ve had three sons, our oldest will be six in a couple of weeks and our youngest was just born in May. My husband and I have each held a number of jobs, and [Plantboy] has earned two college degrees in the same eight years.
When I condense our life together into a few short sentences, it sounds almost overwhelming, but with all this change there have been two important constants—our family and the church. Regardless of how far we’ve roamed from the parents and siblings we grew up with, we have the security of one another and the Lord’s promises to depend on. The church has been the other anchor in our lives. I have lived in over twenty different wards since graduating from high school, but I know when I go to church on Sunday there will be things that never change. [Plantboy] and I know that all we have to do is go the church on Sunday and we will be watched over and protected by the good word of God[1] and the love of his Saints. On the downside, it does mean we speak in church fairly regularly.
Our topic today is the Plan of Salvation. Rather than just give an overview of the plan, we chose to focus on just two key parts of the blueprint our Father in Heaven has laid out for our happiness. Today I will be speaking about the home and its role in preparing family members to learn of the Savior’s plan so that all will desire to make and keep both baptismal covenants and temple covenants. My husband will talk about the temple and its role as a place of spiritual refuge and progression.
As our world moves further away from the righteous purpose of families and proper relationships between men and women, it becomes that much more important to teach our children the sacred purpose of their lives and to give them faith to set proper goals and to work to attain them. In her Conference talk last week, Mary Cook, the second counselor in the Young Women’s General Presidency, quoted from For the Strength of Youth pamphlet saying, “being part of a family is a great blessing. . . . Not all families are the same, but each is important in Heavenly Father’s plan.”[2]
The bible dictionary states that “only the home can compare with the temple in sacredness.”[3] This is a heavy responsibility for each family member. And while all families do not look alike, each of us have assumed some role in a family, or maybe many roles—parent, child, grandparent, aunt, uncle—each person has a unique part to play in the overall harmony of the family unit.
To learn more about proper family roles, we need look no further than the words of the prophets. It is interesting that the Proclamation on the Family[4] begins with a basic overview of the Plan of Salvation and the family’s purpose of helping the Father with his “plan for the eternal destiny of His children.” With so many dissenting voices about what people, particularly, young adults should be doing with their lives, The Proclamation teaches the following doctrines in clear and distinct terms:
1) Marriage is ordained of God and spouses should cleave unto one another and none else.
2) Children are a gift from Heavenly Father and should be treated as such. Husbands and wives should desire to have children, as well as to “rear [them] in love and righteousness, to provide for their physical and spiritual needs, to teach them to love and serve one another, to observe the commandments and to be law-abiding citizens wherever they live.”
3) Having children is not to be taken lightly and children are entitled to be born in a family to a father and a mother.
4) Mothers and Fathers have certain primary responsibilities, though they are equal partners. Families should carefully consider their individual circumstances before deviating from these duties.
Though these principles are primarily aimed at parents, there is part of the Proclamation that applies to any family member. “Successful . . . families are established on principles of faith, prayer, repentance, forgiveness, respect, love, compassion, work and wholesome recreational activities.” President Hinckley’s talk that included the first reading of the Proclamation in 1995 makes clear that every person has the privilege of helping create a successful family, and that each of us has the responsibility to increase Christ-like attributes in our respective homes.
In her Conference talk, Sister Cook also spoke of the need for each person in the family to follow prophetic counsel to pray, study scriptures, and to keep the other commandments. She said, “As you commit to these patterns of righteousness, you will be blessed throughout your life and will develop the spiritual foundation from which you can strengthen your family by example.”[5] She then spoke with love of her brother whose example helped her parents desire to go to the temple and be sealed to each other and their children. She quoted Elder Robert D. Hales: “If the example we have received from our parents was not good, it is our responsibility to break the cycle. . . . Each person can learn a better way and in so doing bless the lives of family members now and teach correct traditions for the generations that follow”[6]
My own life has been blessed because one person decided to break the cycle. My mother grew up in a home with parents who differed widely in age and with whom there was little communication. Their activity in the church and her father’s employment was spotty. The only nurturing my mother received as a young girl came from a much older half-sister. My dad’s upbringing did not reflect a very strong foundation in the gospel either, but my parents made a decision when they were married to be active in the church. My mother gathered lessons on love and parenting from the sisters in her ward and the friends in her neighborhood and she learned how to be a righteous mother. We did not do everything perfectly, but I never doubted my mother’s testimony or her commitment to the Savior. Because of her faith and her diligent teaching of the gospel plan, all of her grandchildren have been born in the covenant. Her children have served missions and taken callings, and countless others have been touched through her own church service. One person can indeed make a difference.
Though our covenants are made with our Heavenly Father, it is through our interactions with others that we prove whether or not we will keep them. I think the baptismal covenant as set forth in Mosiah makes our obligation plain. Alma had been teaching the people for many days. They were so spiritually starved that they left their homes and gathered in the wilderness to hear his preaching. He laid forth the first principles and ordinances of the gospel—faith, repentance, baptism and the Holy Ghost. When they felt the joy of the Lord, they wanted to know how to follow. Alma explains the covenant in plain terms.[7]
8 And it came to pass that he said unto them: Behold, here are the waters of Mormon (for thus were they called) and now, as ye are adesirous to come into the bfold of God, and to be called his people, and are willing to bear one another’s burdens, that they may be light;
9 Yea, and are awilling to mourn with those that bmourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort, and to stand as cwitnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places that ye may be in, even until death, that ye may be redeemed of God, and be numbered with those of the dfirst resurrection, that ye may have eternal life—
10 Now I say unto you, if this be the desire of your hearts, what have you against being abaptized in the bname of the Lord, as a witness before him that ye have entered into a ccovenant with him, that ye will serve him and keep his commandments, that he may pour out his Spirit more abundantly upon you?
We know from the rest of the account that the people rejoiced as they made their covenant. We don’t know any individual detail about what happened with these people later, but I think, probably not unlike us, once the initial euphoria of their spiritual experience wore off, they had to daily recommit themselves to the responsibilities of their covenant. The best way for any of us to prove the sincerity of our baptismal or temple covenants is in our charity toward others. There is no better proving ground for our souls than in Christ-like treatment of our families.
Sometimes this can be hard. It is not always easy to serve our family members, even when we know we should, and even when experience teaches us that service is the best way to be happy. For me, being a mother is sometimes frustrating. It isn’t just kids that get tired and cranky sometimes! As I try to guide my children, it sometimes seems like I have been forgotten; that any other thing besides mothering has been put on hold indefinitely. During his conference talk, Elder Packer spoke of the new calling one of his sons had. He said that though pleased with his son’s new responsibilities, it was the work in his home that was the most important. He said, “What my son and his wife are doing with their little children transcends anything they could do in the Church or out. No service could be more important to the Lord than the devotion they give to one another and to their little children. . . The ultimate end of all activity in the Church centers in the home and the family.”[8] When I feel tired and frustrated, I try to remember the importance the Lord has attached to the work we do in our homes and pray for strength to serve cheerfully.
We must not forget that every diaper changed or four a.m. feeding, every roommate consoled, every bruised knee kissed, every game of catch, every granddaughter taught how to cook, every article of clothing shared with a sister and every niece taken for an ice cream cone will teach love—both to those we serve, and to ourselves. The more love we show and act on, the more love we feel and the greater capacity we are given to serve. When families of any shape and size and configuration are filled with love, teaching the gospel and the purpose of life is the next logical step. As we serve one another with real gladness in our hearts, we become the Lord’s covenant people who will one day inherit all He has.
In conclusion, I would like to tell you about Russell. I met him when I’d been on my mission about five months and we felt impressed to knock on doors in his street. The first discussion was not promising. Russell’s house wasn’t clean, nor was Russell. His hair was long and unkempt and his clothes were dirty and ill-fitting. Though he held a full time job, much of his excess income went to alcohol and cigarettes. Later he admitted that he only invited us to teach him out of boredom.
Russell was not a golden contact, but the Spirit began working on Russell in quiet ways, and almost imperceptible changes began happening. First he cut his hair and dressed more carefully. He threw out his alcohol. He began reading scriptures and praying each day. There was religious music playing in his home when we came for our discussions. The night he decided to join the church he said, “I want to be baptized because the Spirit is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever felt and I never want to be without it again.” I learned, some months later, that he had finally given up cigarettes. A fellow missionary told me that he wore a new suit to church the day he blessed the sacrament, instead of the ill-fitting suit left over from the 70's that he had been wearing. He began saving his money so that he might more often visit his four sons who lived in another city. I lost track of Russell about the time I came home from my mission; the last I heard is that he had quit his job to move closer to his children and begin rebuilding a relationship with them.
Some years after I had been home, through an unusual set of circumstances, I learned of Russell again. He was serving as a member of a branch presidency in the small town he had moved to years before, and his son, who had been baptized some years before, had just been sealed to his wife in the temple.
As the Spirit and the knowledge of the plan of salvation worked on Russell, he became a contributing member of his family. The family he had once thought broken beyond repair, has begun to heal through Russell’s diligent living of the gospel. Such healing is within the reach of every one of us.
As we head into the coming week, may each of us determine to do one thing to better keep our covenants to our Father in Heaven by serving our families with cheerful hearts. I know that as we magnify the love in our families, and establish patterns of righteous living, gospel teaching becomes easy and natural. Our homes will indeed resemble the temple in sacredness as they become havens from a world void of direction and purpose.
The Lord lives and He loves us. Of all the wonderful gifts he has bestowed on us in our lives, one of the best of these is family. Of all His wonderful promises for the life to come, the best of these is the knowledge that family relationships do not end with death. As we form families based on His principles, we will progress through our lives according to His plan and learn what we must to live in his presence again.
[1] Moroni 6:4
[2] Ensign November 2007, “Strengthen Home and Family”
[3] Bible Dictionary under “Temple”
[4] Ensign, November 1995, “Stand Strong Against the Wiles of the World”
[5] Ensign November 2007, “Strengthen Home and Family”
[6] Ensign, November 1993 “How Will Our Children Remember Us?”
[7] Mosiah 18:8-10
[8] Ensign, November 2007, “The Weak and The Simple of the Church”
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Thursday, October 11, 2007
2
The longest stretch of sleep I had last night. It is funny how you forget certain things from child to child. For example, as I've allowed my children to be tummy sleepers at very young ages, they all go through this thing at about four or five months when they wake up a lot. Why? Babies master that front to back roll a LONG time before they can do back to front.
Two is also the number of hours of television Pirate watched this morning while Mommy dozed on the couch. The plan was very effective until my visiting teacher dropped by. She is extremely sweet and even told me my hair looked nice though my house was a disaster and I was wearing my pajamas. Maybe my hair does look nice. I haven't seen a mirror yet today.
And Zippity Do-Dah wanted a sitcom for moms? You've got it sister. These mini shows are hilarious, written by moms, for moms. Start with the trailer. Every episode is funny and they are clean. Okay, clean by sitcom standards; it isn't something you'd show, say, during a Relief Society Lesson. Plantboy tipped me off on these when he saw an Internet news release on them at Mother's Day. The graphic didn't come out very big, but they are calling for submissions. I have heard some stories here that could totally make the cut. Check out this link and scroll down to "Don't Talk to Them, They are Mormons," and read all the way to the L A S T paragraph. It is one of my all time favorite blogger-moments.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
24
I've often thought it was ridiculous how much could happen to Jack Bauer in just 24 hours. But let me recount my last 24.
Tuesday 8 am--Scallywag gets on his bus, which came late on the day I really needed it to be on time. I turn off Poopy Pirate's show to get him dressed to go to the doctor for Captain Tootypants' four month visit (two weeks late). Pirate has his first tantrum of the day and I hold him down to dress him and wrestle him into the car. Tootypants begins crying because he woke up at six and is wanting his first nap. The clinic is not where I thought it was and I end up fifteen minutes late.
9am--I call the clinic in L**** to ask them to fax Tootypants' shot record to my new clinic. I fill out the paperwork while Tootypants cries and Pirate pulls out every toy in the place. We see the doctor who is really nice but find out that poor Tootypants is in single digits for both height and weight. The first of my children to earn this auspicious honor prior to their second birthday. We wait for the shot nurse. . . . and wait. . . . and wait. . . . Tootypants falls asleep in my arms while Pirate runs around the tiny exam room throwing his second (or third?) tantrum of the day.
10am--I get to the car and call the moms I'm supposed to have at my house for pre-school right at that minute to tell them I'll be late. I'm home about four minutes when we start preschool. We sing songs, I try to keep the kids out of the toys (it is their first day and they just want to play), and try to interpret the language of 2 1/2 year olds that are not my own. Princess Pink (one of the pre-schoolers) poops. She won't let me change her. We get out the playdoh (this is NOT a euphamism for poop.)
11 am--I referee playdoh while I clean up the breakfast dishes. I tell Cutie Haircut (another pre-schooler) that she can't mix the colors. She says nothing and just gives me THE LOOK while digging in deeper to the white she had and the red she stole from Princess Pink. She squeezes the mass defiantly in her chubby patties and I just decide there are some things not worth fighting over. Yellow eventually makes it into the mix. I read stories to Princess (stinky) Pink and Pirate while Cutie Haircut destroys the rest of the Playdoh. Play time! I pass out fruit snacks while Pirate walks around telling everybody what to play with. He also poops so Princess Stinky doesn't feel so lonely. Scallywag gets off the bus and yelps, "What are all these babies doing in the house!" He then demands a peanut butter sandwich because kindy snack time was only a square piece of cinnamon cake, not a triangle. Mommys come.
Noon--Clean up, lunch, Diego's Animal Safari rescue and some house clean up. Change to the big-boy pants because Poopy wants peep-treats instead of lunch. Tantrum # whatever we are on ensues.
One pm--Baby wakes up and all that comes with a child who had four shots in his less than chubby legs just a few hours before.
Two--Baby goes back down. Kids go outside. The neighbors are putting up a new fence and have taken out the old one, so if the kids are disobedient then they can easily walk through two yards and jump right into the open pool I didn't even know was on the block. Thankfully, kids are obedient and fascinated watching the worker-guys. Why do they always have to smoke? Three and four wasn't super busy. Just the typical mom stuff and house cleaning and never-ending laundry. Mommy gets a few minutes of down time.
Four--Comb hair and do make up. Change clothes. Run off Mapquest directions to the tutoring center where I will go to meet my first client. Plantboy comes home and gets his "instructions" for dinner, etc. I wake up the baby and feed him.
Five--Drive through half and hour of horrific traffic to get to the center. Meet my client. My cellphone rings, but I don't pick it up or look at the number. In the seven o'clock hour I find out that it was my home teacher who tried to call before dropping by, but dropped by anyway. I spend a half and hour working through six homework problems. Negative and positive numbers.
Six--I try to help my student through his science homework because it is covering the same concepts he is STRUGGLING with in math. I hope the CAPS show some of the mightyness of his struggle. He doesn't get it. Not. At. All. I meet Dad who happens to be a principle at a local high school. I think we may have some reasonable expectation problems here. Drive home through lesser traffic though still a pain. I turn my IPod way up. I listen to Keith Urban's Stupid Boy about three times. No reason. It is just a good wailing song.
Seven-- I come in the door to a nice spaghetti dinner, or at least I think it will be. The baby takes one look at me and starts wailing. Apparently Tootypants had been angelic until he saw me, but one look at Pirate's red, blotchy eyes told me that he had been less than happy during Daddy in charge time. Another look at Plantboy's face told me the same. Hold baby while I eat cold spaghetti. Hand off baby for Plantboy to change his horrificly stinky (cloth) diaper, sort laundry, help Scallywag clean up toys, Pirate refuses to help and has to be put in the tub kicking and screaming. I am soaked by the time he comes out. Put Scallywag in the shower, nurse baby while Plantboy deals with Pirate.
Eight--Put down Pirate and Tootypants, they fall asleep almost immediately. Small favors. Read to Scallywag, put him down. Go through Tuesday folder items and write out check for school pictures, wishing that Scallywag didn't have that big black bruise on his face where he and Pirate head butted each other while jumping on my bed. Remind Scallywag not to sing the alphabet song at the top of his lungs in the bedroom he shares with two sleeping brothers.
Nine--Begin to do dishes and decide I'm just too tired and want to go to bed. Then, for some reason I begin going through all of the products in the house hunting for Box Tops For Education.
Ten--Go to bed. As soon as I lay down, Scallywag begins crying and whimpering. I go into him. He is hot and grouchy and his cold medicine hasn't really kicked in yet. I change his pajamas and put him back in bed. Fifteen minutes later he begins calling out and crying again. He tells Plantboy he is scared of monsters. They pray, talk for the hundredth time about monsters not being real and put him back to bed. He lays next to me and tells me he is afraid of Star Wars. Plantboy moves him when he drifts off.
Eleven--Sweet sleep.
Midnight--Again with the monsters and Scallywag. I move him out to the couch where it is cooler and there is more light. Sweet Sleep.
Two am--Nurse the baby. He doesn't eat well, so I know he'll be up again, but I'm so exhausted I fall immediately asleep. Go back to bed.
Five am--Baby wakes up again. Plantboy's alarm goes off at 5:30 because it is Ride Your Bike To Work Day. Baby won't go back to sleep, but lays in bed squealing at me for half and hour.
Six am--Bounce baby to keep him happy to avoid waking up big brothers. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. He is finally relaxed enough to lay down, but there is no point in trying to sleep as the big kids will be up any minute.
Seven-twenty am--I should have gone back to sleep. Surprisingly, they woke up very cheerfully and Scallywag even made his bus on time.
At eight I should have gone to sleep for at least thirty minutes while Pirate watched his last show of the morning, but I kept thinking the baby wouldn't last much longer. Again, mistake. Because here I am blogging and the baby is still sleeping. . . . only now the pirate is poopy again.
And just when I thought it had been a VERY long day, my mother calls to tell me that my sister is down and out with strep throat and a kidney stone. It can always get worse. :) Hopefully blogging my own version of 24 will keep a smile on my face through this inevitably exhausting day. And if it puts a smile on a few of your faces then it is as good as saving the world.
Monday, October 08, 2007
In a Moment
I thought of something the other day and Desmama's post from today reminded me of it again. I've often heard people who have been in severe accidents or live through terrible illnesses say things like, "I didn't realize my whole life could change so quickly." Most days you go along and everything is wonderful and fine and even the "bad" stuff can mostly be laughed about . . . . and then things happen that aren't funny and never will be. Like my cousins who were kidnapped for a few hours by a crazy ex-con. Like the fact that three of my cousins have lost babies. Like those terrible things that must be in your lives too; the things we brush under the carpet and spend much time trying to heal from and forget though they change us in ways that imprint forever.
Still, there are a lot of almost-terrible moments that we are somehow, miraculously saved from. I had one last week with my Pyrex. I can't tell you how often I've got one of the kids in the kitchen while I'm cooking. The older two are often helping, the baby is often in his bouncy seat on the floor. I was wearing long sleeves and probably just tall enough to avoid the worst of the glass. Not one of my little munchkins would have been so lucky. Whatever Providence had them all safely away from the scene of the accident at that particular moment was a great blessing for which I am so grateful.
I had one of these almost moments many years ago. I watched my children play on the sidewalk and gutter in the front of our house the other day and I remembered:
I was about five and playing with my friend on the front lawn. This part of the memory is so vivid that I remember what the doll blankets looked like that we had with us. My 18 month old sister was playing with us in the front yard. While the doll blankets and my friend are vivid, the rest is a bit of a blur--traumatic memory and all of that. AJ (my sister) walked into the road. A friend of a teenager who lived up the street came screaming around the corner. I remember hearing the brakes screech.
Somebody must have run for my mother, or maybe I did. My next memory is of a whole lot of people hovered around AJ laying there by our mailbox.
She had a bruised temple. That's it. I don't remember anybody ever scolding me, though I was probably supposed to be keeping her close to me.
I don't know why this almost-awful memory has invaded my brain this week. What a difference a few inches or old brakes or one mile an hour faster would have made to my family! It is guilt that my mother and I would never have been able to erase. Instead, coupled with other things that happened with AJ as a young child, we now just laugh about how accident prone she was.
I once left home in search of my brother who had gone to a park. Mom thought we were together. I was picked up by a random lady who thought I was lost because I was on a tricycle and beginning to look upset. Somehow, though I was only three, I was able to tell the kind woman where I lived. Plantboy was left at home when he was just 18 months. Their large family would not fit in one car and it was in the days before car seats. Each parent went a different direction assuming the other had him. He got out of the house and was wandering down the street when a concerned neighbor took him into her house.
I've been reading a book this week that has many elements I don't agree with necessarily because it is full of all kinds of made up doctrine, and is a little warlike, but there are parts that are so thoroughly touching I have been unable to get it out of my head. I cried like a fountain at his description of Heavenly Mother and Her heartbreak over the decision to cast out a third of her children. The author's characterization of Lucifer is spot on and frightening. I've wondered how much we knew of earthly missions before we came here. I've thrilled as I've looked into the eyes of my children and wondered at the valiancy of their spirits. Why has my own life been presereved and my way so easy? What promises did I make my Parents before I came here?
On a lighter note, there is much about parenting that IS funny. The Lord does protect us from so much and each day we have is a chance to rejoice in all that is good. I've had a couple of different people forward this video clip to me. If you haven't seen it, and if you are a mom or have ever had a mom, this is one of the most clever things I've come across in a long time.
And wasn't conference great?
Still, there are a lot of almost-terrible moments that we are somehow, miraculously saved from. I had one last week with my Pyrex. I can't tell you how often I've got one of the kids in the kitchen while I'm cooking. The older two are often helping, the baby is often in his bouncy seat on the floor. I was wearing long sleeves and probably just tall enough to avoid the worst of the glass. Not one of my little munchkins would have been so lucky. Whatever Providence had them all safely away from the scene of the accident at that particular moment was a great blessing for which I am so grateful.
I had one of these almost moments many years ago. I watched my children play on the sidewalk and gutter in the front of our house the other day and I remembered:
I was about five and playing with my friend on the front lawn. This part of the memory is so vivid that I remember what the doll blankets looked like that we had with us. My 18 month old sister was playing with us in the front yard. While the doll blankets and my friend are vivid, the rest is a bit of a blur--traumatic memory and all of that. AJ (my sister) walked into the road. A friend of a teenager who lived up the street came screaming around the corner. I remember hearing the brakes screech.
Somebody must have run for my mother, or maybe I did. My next memory is of a whole lot of people hovered around AJ laying there by our mailbox.
She had a bruised temple. That's it. I don't remember anybody ever scolding me, though I was probably supposed to be keeping her close to me.
I don't know why this almost-awful memory has invaded my brain this week. What a difference a few inches or old brakes or one mile an hour faster would have made to my family! It is guilt that my mother and I would never have been able to erase. Instead, coupled with other things that happened with AJ as a young child, we now just laugh about how accident prone she was.
I once left home in search of my brother who had gone to a park. Mom thought we were together. I was picked up by a random lady who thought I was lost because I was on a tricycle and beginning to look upset. Somehow, though I was only three, I was able to tell the kind woman where I lived. Plantboy was left at home when he was just 18 months. Their large family would not fit in one car and it was in the days before car seats. Each parent went a different direction assuming the other had him. He got out of the house and was wandering down the street when a concerned neighbor took him into her house.
I've been reading a book this week that has many elements I don't agree with necessarily because it is full of all kinds of made up doctrine, and is a little warlike, but there are parts that are so thoroughly touching I have been unable to get it out of my head. I cried like a fountain at his description of Heavenly Mother and Her heartbreak over the decision to cast out a third of her children. The author's characterization of Lucifer is spot on and frightening. I've wondered how much we knew of earthly missions before we came here. I've thrilled as I've looked into the eyes of my children and wondered at the valiancy of their spirits. Why has my own life been presereved and my way so easy? What promises did I make my Parents before I came here?
On a lighter note, there is much about parenting that IS funny. The Lord does protect us from so much and each day we have is a chance to rejoice in all that is good. I've had a couple of different people forward this video clip to me. If you haven't seen it, and if you are a mom or have ever had a mom, this is one of the most clever things I've come across in a long time.
And wasn't conference great?
Friday, October 05, 2007
A Prophet For Our Time?
My brother-in-law sent me an email today asking me to sign a petition. The petition was put together by some group that was eventually going to be forwarded to Oprah Winfrey for the topic of show she had recently about "open" marriages. This is basically where the couple is candid with one another about affairs and feel this is good for their marriage. The episode, apparently, was advancing this idea as an acceptable alternative to "traditional" marriage. In addition, much attention was given to how healthy pornography is for a relationship. I think my reply to my brother-in-law is worth posting here as a forum for discussion as we head into this weekend of conference talks:
Oprah has been anti-marriage for years. I've seen her gloat with female celebrities over their singleness and desire to not be married. I've heard her say that marriage is antiquated and that it has outlived its usefulness. This is one of the main reasons I quit watching her a long time ago. She is not a political party; she is a woman with strong opinions and uses her talk show, in part, to promote a pro gay rights and anti marriage agenda. A petition is not going to change what she does or who she is. If the networks agreed to drop her syndicated show because of her various discussions then she might at least tone down her topics, but the networks will only drop her if people quit watching. But people DON'T quit watching. Instead, we circulate petitions asking her to change her opinions so that we don't feel guilty tuning in.
The sad part is, she does some incredible humanitarian things. If other extremely (or even moderately) wealthy people would start doing things on their own like she is, the government wouldn't "need" to ask so much from people. (I've heard lots of ultra-conservatives say that if they weren't taxed so heavily they could give more away. I think it is a load of garbage. If the government takes less of your money people just buy more stuff, and I'm not talking about food and clothing or basic shelter. With more money you just eat out more, buy designer labels and enormous homes. Our society is a perfect example of this.) I think her work in Africa is brilliant. She continues to do just enough of this stuff that sweet women everywhere keep watching her while her anti-social agenda is advanced.
In the Book of Mormon, there is a part that talks about how people reject true prophets only to raise up those as prophets who tell them what they want to hear. I've thought this description has fit Oprah perfectly for a long time. People are willing to listen to anything she says and call her one of the most "progressive" thinkers of our time. The truth is, three shows out of five preach contrary to all gospel teachings. (And 99% of all statistics are made up on the spot.)
This weekend we can turn on television in the day time and find a real message of hope and understanding for our marriages. We can listen to what the Lord has said will work to keep our relationships secure and balanced. We can have courage to shun things that will infest our homes like a cancer. And it won't be because a group of concerned citizens sent a petition to the leadership of the church.
It will be because a prophet of the Lord has been called and set apart to receive revelation not just for our church, but for the world. Only listening to his voice can we find the solace we seek.
Happy viewing.
Oprah has been anti-marriage for years. I've seen her gloat with female celebrities over their singleness and desire to not be married. I've heard her say that marriage is antiquated and that it has outlived its usefulness. This is one of the main reasons I quit watching her a long time ago. She is not a political party; she is a woman with strong opinions and uses her talk show, in part, to promote a pro gay rights and anti marriage agenda. A petition is not going to change what she does or who she is. If the networks agreed to drop her syndicated show because of her various discussions then she might at least tone down her topics, but the networks will only drop her if people quit watching. But people DON'T quit watching. Instead, we circulate petitions asking her to change her opinions so that we don't feel guilty tuning in.
The sad part is, she does some incredible humanitarian things. If other extremely (or even moderately) wealthy people would start doing things on their own like she is, the government wouldn't "need" to ask so much from people. (I've heard lots of ultra-conservatives say that if they weren't taxed so heavily they could give more away. I think it is a load of garbage. If the government takes less of your money people just buy more stuff, and I'm not talking about food and clothing or basic shelter. With more money you just eat out more, buy designer labels and enormous homes. Our society is a perfect example of this.) I think her work in Africa is brilliant. She continues to do just enough of this stuff that sweet women everywhere keep watching her while her anti-social agenda is advanced.
In the Book of Mormon, there is a part that talks about how people reject true prophets only to raise up those as prophets who tell them what they want to hear. I've thought this description has fit Oprah perfectly for a long time. People are willing to listen to anything she says and call her one of the most "progressive" thinkers of our time. The truth is, three shows out of five preach contrary to all gospel teachings. (And 99% of all statistics are made up on the spot.)
This weekend we can turn on television in the day time and find a real message of hope and understanding for our marriages. We can listen to what the Lord has said will work to keep our relationships secure and balanced. We can have courage to shun things that will infest our homes like a cancer. And it won't be because a group of concerned citizens sent a petition to the leadership of the church.
It will be because a prophet of the Lord has been called and set apart to receive revelation not just for our church, but for the world. Only listening to his voice can we find the solace we seek.
Happy viewing.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
As Per Your Requests
I'm sharing recipes today because, truthfully, I'm too sleep deprived for anything else. After announcing proudly several weeks back that my baby was sleeping through the night, he changed his mind. I am grateful for the four or six weeks that he did sleep through the night because it was right in the middle of unpacking, but I'm back to not getting more than three or four hours in a stretch.
Part of the reason I love these two recipes is because they came from my old ward cookbook. That ward still feels like "home" to me because my parents lived in that ward 20 years--all of my growing up. And though they've been in their "new" home twelve years this month, their ward has probably split five or six times and except for a few months here and there I never really have lived in that house. Anyway, this cookbook was so wonderful it was reprinted about five years after its initial printing and my mom bought two extra copies to give to my sister and I as wedding gifts. I will spare you the green jello shrimp mold, but these two are fabulous.
Lou Ella's Lickety-split Brown Sugar Muffins
(Lou Ella was a neighbor up the street from us. I've never met anybody that could talk the way she could. She was only 4'11'' and her husband was about 5'3". He was our home teacher for probably five years. She died a few years ago.)
1 C brown sugar
1 C milk
2 C flour
1/4 tsp salt
1 egg
1/2 C butter
1/2 tsp baking soda
1 tsp vanilla
Mix ingredients together well (electric beaters don't produce as good of results). Pour into greased or papered muffin tins about 2/3 full. Bake at 375 for 15-20 minutes. One dozen.
So easy! And you nearly always have the ingredients on hand for them. That is why they are a Sunday favorite. Delicious and not fancy. They are very sweet and fatty--almost like a cupcake. There are some great and tasty variations on these that we've tried also to make them a little more healthful or just different, but still good. You can use any of these modifications in conjunction with each other or separate:
* cut sugar back to 3/4 a cup
* sub applesauce for part of the fat
* add 1/2 cup of nuts
* sub one cup of white flour with whole wheat bread flour
* add 1/2 cup of finely chopped apple
* add 1/2 cup of oatmeal
Orange Rolls
(The woman who submitted this was one of my mom's best friends. Her son and I grew up together in the same ward, though he was always in the Sunday School class ahead of me. I never thought much of him until he and I were part of a school trip to London when we were juniors. We became much better friends after that, and I still am interested to learn what he is up to. Anyway, this sister was the queen of all things domestic, but she was not one of those women you hated for her gifts because she was always charming and nice and helpful and willing to share her talents. She made my wedding cake.)
This recipe is not for the faint of heart, but so worth it.
1/3 C oil
1/4 C sugar
3/4 C scalded milk
1/2 C cold water
1 Tbsp yeast sprinkled over 1/4 C warm water and 1 tsp sugar
1 tsp salt
1 egg
3 1/2 C flour
1/2 tsp grated orange peel
Scald milk and pour into a large bowl. Add oil, sugar, cold water and egg. Add 1 Cup of flour, orange rind and salt. Mix. Add the yeast mixture, then remaining flour. (You may need slightly more than 3 1/2 cups total). Let rise until double. Punch down and let rise 5 minutes more. Roll out on a floured board in a rectangle. (The rest of the directions are my own as they vary slightly from the original.)
You can do these rolls a couple of different ways. You can make large or small cinnamon roll type buns or you can put small rolls into greased muffin tins. The biggest difference will be the size of your rectangle. I roll mine to just over two feet by about nine or ten inches. This dough is divinely soft and fabulous to work with.
Spread with soft butter--dont' be chintzy. The recipe calls for sprinkling the butter with sugar and grated orange rind--no amount specified. At this stage I also add chopped Craisins (orange flavored if you can find them) and I think chopped pecans or walnuts would be fabulous too, but the boys in my house boycott almost all foods where they can actually SEE the nuts. (The two expections are cashews in the stir fry and pine nuts in the pesto.)
Roll up, and cut into 3/4 inch segments using the string method. Put them in the pan and let them raise in a warm spot 45 minutes to and hour, covered. Bake at 375 for about 11 or 12 minutes, depending on the size of the rolls and the desired doneness.
These are especially fabulous with the following glaze:
Beat together 2 tsp of soft butter with 3 oz of soft cream cheese. Juice the oranges you took the rind from and beat the juice into the cream cheese mixture. Add some powdered sugar and beat. If it is too runny for your taste, add more sugar. Too thick--add more juice (about 1 tsp at a time).
They are delicious glazed warm, but if you glaze them all they are hard to store and stick together. After you and your husband have eaten about four of these apiece fresh out of the oven, I store them in a container with a lid and just glaze them individually and then microwave them for a few seconds until warm.
These rolls are delicious and festive. They are kind of a Christmas Day brunch tradition with us, but you have to make the dough pretty early in the morning. Plan on three-four hours start to finish. Unless you make homemade pizza and explode some cookware during the process. Then you are looking at more like six or seven hours. I wouldn't recommend this.
Part of the reason I love these two recipes is because they came from my old ward cookbook. That ward still feels like "home" to me because my parents lived in that ward 20 years--all of my growing up. And though they've been in their "new" home twelve years this month, their ward has probably split five or six times and except for a few months here and there I never really have lived in that house. Anyway, this cookbook was so wonderful it was reprinted about five years after its initial printing and my mom bought two extra copies to give to my sister and I as wedding gifts. I will spare you the green jello shrimp mold, but these two are fabulous.
Lou Ella's Lickety-split Brown Sugar Muffins
(Lou Ella was a neighbor up the street from us. I've never met anybody that could talk the way she could. She was only 4'11'' and her husband was about 5'3". He was our home teacher for probably five years. She died a few years ago.)
1 C brown sugar
1 C milk
2 C flour
1/4 tsp salt
1 egg
1/2 C butter
1/2 tsp baking soda
1 tsp vanilla
Mix ingredients together well (electric beaters don't produce as good of results). Pour into greased or papered muffin tins about 2/3 full. Bake at 375 for 15-20 minutes. One dozen.
So easy! And you nearly always have the ingredients on hand for them. That is why they are a Sunday favorite. Delicious and not fancy. They are very sweet and fatty--almost like a cupcake. There are some great and tasty variations on these that we've tried also to make them a little more healthful or just different, but still good. You can use any of these modifications in conjunction with each other or separate:
* cut sugar back to 3/4 a cup
* sub applesauce for part of the fat
* add 1/2 cup of nuts
* sub one cup of white flour with whole wheat bread flour
* add 1/2 cup of finely chopped apple
* add 1/2 cup of oatmeal
Orange Rolls
(The woman who submitted this was one of my mom's best friends. Her son and I grew up together in the same ward, though he was always in the Sunday School class ahead of me. I never thought much of him until he and I were part of a school trip to London when we were juniors. We became much better friends after that, and I still am interested to learn what he is up to. Anyway, this sister was the queen of all things domestic, but she was not one of those women you hated for her gifts because she was always charming and nice and helpful and willing to share her talents. She made my wedding cake.)
This recipe is not for the faint of heart, but so worth it.
1/3 C oil
1/4 C sugar
3/4 C scalded milk
1/2 C cold water
1 Tbsp yeast sprinkled over 1/4 C warm water and 1 tsp sugar
1 tsp salt
1 egg
3 1/2 C flour
1/2 tsp grated orange peel
Scald milk and pour into a large bowl. Add oil, sugar, cold water and egg. Add 1 Cup of flour, orange rind and salt. Mix. Add the yeast mixture, then remaining flour. (You may need slightly more than 3 1/2 cups total). Let rise until double. Punch down and let rise 5 minutes more. Roll out on a floured board in a rectangle. (The rest of the directions are my own as they vary slightly from the original.)
You can do these rolls a couple of different ways. You can make large or small cinnamon roll type buns or you can put small rolls into greased muffin tins. The biggest difference will be the size of your rectangle. I roll mine to just over two feet by about nine or ten inches. This dough is divinely soft and fabulous to work with.
Spread with soft butter--dont' be chintzy. The recipe calls for sprinkling the butter with sugar and grated orange rind--no amount specified. At this stage I also add chopped Craisins (orange flavored if you can find them) and I think chopped pecans or walnuts would be fabulous too, but the boys in my house boycott almost all foods where they can actually SEE the nuts. (The two expections are cashews in the stir fry and pine nuts in the pesto.)
Roll up, and cut into 3/4 inch segments using the string method. Put them in the pan and let them raise in a warm spot 45 minutes to and hour, covered. Bake at 375 for about 11 or 12 minutes, depending on the size of the rolls and the desired doneness.
These are especially fabulous with the following glaze:
Beat together 2 tsp of soft butter with 3 oz of soft cream cheese. Juice the oranges you took the rind from and beat the juice into the cream cheese mixture. Add some powdered sugar and beat. If it is too runny for your taste, add more sugar. Too thick--add more juice (about 1 tsp at a time).
They are delicious glazed warm, but if you glaze them all they are hard to store and stick together. After you and your husband have eaten about four of these apiece fresh out of the oven, I store them in a container with a lid and just glaze them individually and then microwave them for a few seconds until warm.
These rolls are delicious and festive. They are kind of a Christmas Day brunch tradition with us, but you have to make the dough pretty early in the morning. Plan on three-four hours start to finish. Unless you make homemade pizza and explode some cookware during the process. Then you are looking at more like six or seven hours. I wouldn't recommend this.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Does Anybody Have Any Chocolate?
This is supposed to be a recipe post, but it says something about the strength of the bonds formed via blogging that I've decided instead to share some news here, first, instead.
I just heard from Covenant Books . . . .
And they are NOT going to further consider my book.
The first time this happened, a couple of years ago, I wasn't really surprised. I thought my first finished novel had its strengths, but not very publishable, as there is just too much stuff in that genre. This one, however, was the right idea at the right time. I have a feeling that if this book doesn't go anywhere , then I probably don't have one in me that will ever go anywhere.
Let's just say it is a perfect finish to the mood I've had hanging around off and on for the last couple of weeks. Still, tomorrow is another day, and the writing compulsion will come again and tap at the corners of my brain until I have to answer. And, as I've told Plantboy many times, I'm not writing for money or fame or even influence. . . .I write for me. The stories and thoughts build up until I'm sure I'll begin talking to myself if I don't get them out.
I just heard from Covenant Books . . . .
And they are NOT going to further consider my book.
The first time this happened, a couple of years ago, I wasn't really surprised. I thought my first finished novel had its strengths, but not very publishable, as there is just too much stuff in that genre. This one, however, was the right idea at the right time. I have a feeling that if this book doesn't go anywhere , then I probably don't have one in me that will ever go anywhere.
Let's just say it is a perfect finish to the mood I've had hanging around off and on for the last couple of weeks. Still, tomorrow is another day, and the writing compulsion will come again and tap at the corners of my brain until I have to answer. And, as I've told Plantboy many times, I'm not writing for money or fame or even influence. . . .I write for me. The stories and thoughts build up until I'm sure I'll begin talking to myself if I don't get them out.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Details
It sounds like for some of you, the details won't be necessary. For you who have not had this icky thing happen, here is the run down of my Saturday afternoon.
The first bad thing that happened is that the Ducks lost in the last minute of the game. I'm a fair weather sports fan, it has to be admitted. I glom onto whatever local team is the best--when my brother-in-law played for the Y, I was a Zoobie every Saturday for a few hours. Then I was an Astros fan for a few years. The last two winters I've been an Aggie basketball fan. But now, we have a fabulous local football team to support. Anyway, they lost Saturday in a really big, nationally televised game.
After the game I started making pizza dough, about 4:30. Homemade pizza, though you don't have to hover at every step, seems to always take us about two hours from start to table. I was so organized and together, I thought, "Hey, I want to make some orange rolls too." So I started a second batch of dough. It must be noted here that the orange rolls are to die for; even the batter is fantastically fragrant.
We (Plantboy loves to help with this one) begin getting busy on the pizza, in earnest, about 5:30. One large crust and two small (each in a Pyrex baking dish). We bake each pizza twice. The two small crusts went into the oven just as Captain Tootypants wakes up from his nap. I nurse the baby, and when I'm done, the kitchen is filled with a horrible burning smell and the window is open. (No, no explosion yet.) Plantboy had burned some bacon he wanted on his pizza and was trying to air out the kitchen. He was just finishing the boys' all cheesy mini pizza. For lack of a better place to put the pizza while it waited its second cooking, he put it on the stove top.
I was standing there also, the second little pizza on the front of the stove. I was anticipating a fabulous all-my-own pizza in about ten minutes as I sprinkled red peppers, fresh basil, tomatoes and bacon (from the first unburnt batch) all over the top. I was just putting on the cheese when . . .
I am not sure if I saw the smoke or smelled the burning first. I looked up quickly to the back burner and saw billows of smoke coming from the BOTTOM of the boys' pizza. A quick glance told me the burner was on HIGH. Thankfully I had the presence of mind to grab a pot holder (as I tell me science kids--hot glass looks just like cold glass), and then I slid it to the front burner. Just as I was about to give Plantboy the lecture there was a huge explosion and a scream. (From me.)
I was grateful all weekend that the only person in the kitchen was me. I'm also very grateful to have come off completely unscathed except for a tiny cut incurred during clean up. I was probably less than a foot away from the exploding dish. Still, I was pretty shaken. A minute later, Scallywag tried to enter the kitchen and I screamed at him too. I had visions of his beautiful bare feet cut to ribbons. And Scallywag, being the temper boy that he is, lost it and went to his room furious and refusing to ever eat pizza again since I had ruined his. Poopy Pirate had to be shooed out of the kitchen every three minutes for the rest of the night, and by this point, the baby was wailing at full force.
The two little pizzas were covered with glass. We saved the large one. Dinner was about 45 minutes late. The bulk of the clean up took place after the kids went to bed. I finally started my orange rolls about 8:30, and then about 9:30 I started my posters for Enrichment Super Saturday. About 11:30, the last batch of orange rolls came out. Oh, and I made two major mistakes on the poster.
In the midst of all this, I realized I had halfway hoped to be organized enough to make it to the Relief Society meeting. Yeah, right.
So next time you think your life is under control, just blink. It can all spiral downhill very quickly. I'm only sorry I didn't have the presence of mind to take a picture. By the time I was able to chuckle over the experience and begin thinking, "This would make a great blog," the worst was cleaned up and the picture I could have taken would have been weak.
Plantboy was so apologetic and sweet about the whole thing and did most of the cleanup. He refrained from saying, "That was . . . awesome!" until he could see I was much calmer. He even helped to stick together part of my poster and pulled orange rolls in and out of the oven all night. Aren't hubbies cute when they help? (Check out the first 2 1/2 minutes of this clip.)
Despite the setbacks, it was a good food weekend all around--besides the eventual homemade pizza and the orange rolls, we made this really creamy, yummy corn chowder on our rainy Sunday night. Plantboy made my family's favorite "Louella's Lickity Split Brown Sugar Muffins" to go with. Oh, and we finished the evening with another family favorite: The Man From Snowy River.
The first bad thing that happened is that the Ducks lost in the last minute of the game. I'm a fair weather sports fan, it has to be admitted. I glom onto whatever local team is the best--when my brother-in-law played for the Y, I was a Zoobie every Saturday for a few hours. Then I was an Astros fan for a few years. The last two winters I've been an Aggie basketball fan. But now, we have a fabulous local football team to support. Anyway, they lost Saturday in a really big, nationally televised game.
After the game I started making pizza dough, about 4:30. Homemade pizza, though you don't have to hover at every step, seems to always take us about two hours from start to table. I was so organized and together, I thought, "Hey, I want to make some orange rolls too." So I started a second batch of dough. It must be noted here that the orange rolls are to die for; even the batter is fantastically fragrant.
We (Plantboy loves to help with this one) begin getting busy on the pizza, in earnest, about 5:30. One large crust and two small (each in a Pyrex baking dish). We bake each pizza twice. The two small crusts went into the oven just as Captain Tootypants wakes up from his nap. I nurse the baby, and when I'm done, the kitchen is filled with a horrible burning smell and the window is open. (No, no explosion yet.) Plantboy had burned some bacon he wanted on his pizza and was trying to air out the kitchen. He was just finishing the boys' all cheesy mini pizza. For lack of a better place to put the pizza while it waited its second cooking, he put it on the stove top.
I was standing there also, the second little pizza on the front of the stove. I was anticipating a fabulous all-my-own pizza in about ten minutes as I sprinkled red peppers, fresh basil, tomatoes and bacon (from the first unburnt batch) all over the top. I was just putting on the cheese when . . .
I am not sure if I saw the smoke or smelled the burning first. I looked up quickly to the back burner and saw billows of smoke coming from the BOTTOM of the boys' pizza. A quick glance told me the burner was on HIGH. Thankfully I had the presence of mind to grab a pot holder (as I tell me science kids--hot glass looks just like cold glass), and then I slid it to the front burner. Just as I was about to give Plantboy the lecture there was a huge explosion and a scream. (From me.)
I was grateful all weekend that the only person in the kitchen was me. I'm also very grateful to have come off completely unscathed except for a tiny cut incurred during clean up. I was probably less than a foot away from the exploding dish. Still, I was pretty shaken. A minute later, Scallywag tried to enter the kitchen and I screamed at him too. I had visions of his beautiful bare feet cut to ribbons. And Scallywag, being the temper boy that he is, lost it and went to his room furious and refusing to ever eat pizza again since I had ruined his. Poopy Pirate had to be shooed out of the kitchen every three minutes for the rest of the night, and by this point, the baby was wailing at full force.
The two little pizzas were covered with glass. We saved the large one. Dinner was about 45 minutes late. The bulk of the clean up took place after the kids went to bed. I finally started my orange rolls about 8:30, and then about 9:30 I started my posters for Enrichment Super Saturday. About 11:30, the last batch of orange rolls came out. Oh, and I made two major mistakes on the poster.
In the midst of all this, I realized I had halfway hoped to be organized enough to make it to the Relief Society meeting. Yeah, right.
So next time you think your life is under control, just blink. It can all spiral downhill very quickly. I'm only sorry I didn't have the presence of mind to take a picture. By the time I was able to chuckle over the experience and begin thinking, "This would make a great blog," the worst was cleaned up and the picture I could have taken would have been weak.
Plantboy was so apologetic and sweet about the whole thing and did most of the cleanup. He refrained from saying, "That was . . . awesome!" until he could see I was much calmer. He even helped to stick together part of my poster and pulled orange rolls in and out of the oven all night. Aren't hubbies cute when they help? (Check out the first 2 1/2 minutes of this clip.)
Despite the setbacks, it was a good food weekend all around--besides the eventual homemade pizza and the orange rolls, we made this really creamy, yummy corn chowder on our rainy Sunday night. Plantboy made my family's favorite "Louella's Lickity Split Brown Sugar Muffins" to go with. Oh, and we finished the evening with another family favorite: The Man From Snowy River.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
I'm a Sucker For a Funny Commercial
I will admit it. I love funny commercials. I think it goes back to this classic commercial from my childhood. Especially the first time you see them. The one I saw today that prompted the post is a Geico commercial. I laughed so hard I was tempted to change my auto insurance right then and there.
I also like commericals that make me think. Like this one. It makes me feel sick when I think about this beautiful place we've been given stewardship over. I guess that is the whole point, right. The next is a commercial put together by Dove's Campaign For Real Beauty. Nemesis first pointed this out to me on this post.
My kids are also getting pretty commercialized. Scallywag said to me the other day just before bedtime, "Mom, I would like to watch the all new Build it Bigger. It is on at ten pm eastern." The other thing he informed me the other day is that he'd like some Aquadots, though you had to be eighteen or older to call and get them. If you have been watching Nickelodeon lately, you know what I'm talking about. And if you don't turn off Nickelodeon at seven minutes to the hour and half hour, there is time for your kids to see about 14 commercials. Perfect.
And while I'm linking stuff that just makes me laugh like crazy. Go ahead and check out this one. If you like George Bush or hate Will Farrell, skip it. Anyway, hope this post is good for a laugh and a chance to share your favorite commercials or just vent at the media.
I also like commericals that make me think. Like this one. It makes me feel sick when I think about this beautiful place we've been given stewardship over. I guess that is the whole point, right. The next is a commercial put together by Dove's Campaign For Real Beauty. Nemesis first pointed this out to me on this post.
My kids are also getting pretty commercialized. Scallywag said to me the other day just before bedtime, "Mom, I would like to watch the all new Build it Bigger. It is on at ten pm eastern." The other thing he informed me the other day is that he'd like some Aquadots, though you had to be eighteen or older to call and get them. If you have been watching Nickelodeon lately, you know what I'm talking about. And if you don't turn off Nickelodeon at seven minutes to the hour and half hour, there is time for your kids to see about 14 commercials. Perfect.
And while I'm linking stuff that just makes me laugh like crazy. Go ahead and check out this one. If you like George Bush or hate Will Farrell, skip it. Anyway, hope this post is good for a laugh and a chance to share your favorite commercials or just vent at the media.
Well, I'm Officially in the Ward
Because I've been given my first calling. Enrichment Leader. I know, forecast calls for rain and on.the.run will laugh and say, "Hah! You haven't done anything until you've done monthly enrichment meetings!" While that may be true, I'm still feeling a little in over my head. And truthfully, I'm a little forlorn about not teaching. I've been away just a few months and I'm already missing it. Church has always supplied that outlet in some way or another.
Of course, with me being a member of the Church of the Hallway these days, not having a Sunday calling is actually a pretty great blessing.
Now, the irony of this is the conversation we had last week about the purpose of RS activities. Spiritual or social? Or both? Or is social spiritual? Lots of you weighed in on this and I suppose I will now have to think a lot about these questions.
So now that I've heard your thoughts on the purpose of Enrichment, and church activities in general, I would really like to hear your favorite Enrichment ideas of the past year or so. Give a few sketchy details as well so that if I wanted to re-create them then I could. Also, if you know any websites or blogs with ideas, fill me in.
Of course, with me being a member of the Church of the Hallway these days, not having a Sunday calling is actually a pretty great blessing.
Now, the irony of this is the conversation we had last week about the purpose of RS activities. Spiritual or social? Or both? Or is social spiritual? Lots of you weighed in on this and I suppose I will now have to think a lot about these questions.
So now that I've heard your thoughts on the purpose of Enrichment, and church activities in general, I would really like to hear your favorite Enrichment ideas of the past year or so. Give a few sketchy details as well so that if I wanted to re-create them then I could. Also, if you know any websites or blogs with ideas, fill me in.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Unless We Become New Creatures . . . .
I don't normally blog on Sunday, but truthfully I've been really down this week and I think this will make me feel better. No, I'm not going to vent or soapbox, but seeing as how it is Sunday, I think I'll share a few thoughts here. Maybe the idea that my words are somewhere making a Monday a little more purposeful for somebody will lift my own spirits.
There is so much anger in the world--people fighting one another over things that are both silly and things that are serious. There are sick people out there, people who are mentally, spiritually or physical ill, or some combination of all three. Sometimes I feel like I am trying to row a wooden raft up a raging stream of difficulty. I struggle and struggle and the shore never seems any closer. This will undoubtedly sound familiar to some of you. And I so admire my many friends who seem to push against the rock with such cheerful attitudes!
I'm sure most of you have heard one of President Benson's most oft-quoted remarks about how the world would take the people out of the slums, but that Christ could take the slums out of the people, who then take themselves out of the slums. He also said that while men can work and fight to change human behavior, only Christ can change human nature.
I've been thinking much the last few days about the nature and power of the atonement. I have been thinking about what it means to be born again by degrees. What it means to accept Christ's sacrifice in exchange for a little more of ourselves each day. It is a hard and painful process. There are days it seems too hard. This week it seems too hard. But then, a couple of days ago, I was reading a very noisy blog that I haven't read before. The tone was combative and political and hardline. Most of the comments on the blog echoed her sentiments. I was most disturbed when I realized that this was a group of LDS people having this mean-spirited discussion.
And then I remembered a thing that happened to me many years ago, probably almost exactly ten years ago this month. A thing which I have carried in my heart these many years. A thing worth sharing when I think there is no way to combat the rising, evil tide threatening to engulf the things I hold dear . . .
I was street contacting people in one of the busiest walk-malls in Sydney. Missionaries were out there daily. This was not my typical area, we were there for the day because of a zone conference. The meetings would not begin until afternoon and we needed to work. My trainer took me out to this busy street and I thought I would wet my pants when she told me what we were going to do. Tracting was hard enough, but at least we were in a quiet country town with houses spaced some distance apart and contacts that hadn't been spoken to by Mormon missionaries every day for the past decade.
And the hecklers . . . .
Okay, it was HARD. One of the hardest things I'd ever done in my life up to that point. The only miraculous thing that happened that day was something that probably benefitted only me. I was getting eaten alive trying to contact walkers, so I began approaching people who were sitting. I approached one particularly swarthy looking man and began speaking to him. When he heard my American accent, I thought he would spit on my shoes.
He was from Iraq. He had gone into exile in Australia not long after the first Gulf War. I knew very little about that part of the world at the time, but I understood enough to know he blamed the Americans for the unraveling of his country. Saddam was bad, but the US led UN sanctions were strangling his people. He railed and railed.
I swallowed hard. I could have walked away, but I felt brave and I knew the Lord was with me. In perhaps my first, powerful missionary moment I began talking to him about the gospel. I told him that I knew he hated me and my country, but that I was in Australia representing only the Savior. My country didn't matter. What mattered was that I had come with a message of love and peace.
We spoke for several minutes. He became noticeably calmer and was even willing to engage in conversation. Suddenly he exclaimed that he felt good, he felt peace. He said, "Something tells me that if I came out here every day and just spoke to you, I could always feel this good, but you will go away and it will be gone." His anger immediately gave way to despair. His hopelessness was palpable and I could see a glimpse of his true inner self in a way that nearly broke my heart.
No! I insisted, it was the Holy Ghost that was testifying to him that I was teaching him truth. I told him that he could have that feeling any time he wanted and encouraged him to stop the missionaries or to attend our local building. My trainer came looking for me just minutes later, saying it was time to go. As I was only going to be there one day, follow-up would have been virtually impossible. I am quite sure that this seed I tried so desperately to plant fell by the wayside where it wasn't nourished properly.
But what this experience did for me . . . .
Well, that is the real crux of my message tonight. I knew, in that brief few minutes I spent talking to him, that Christ's love can heal any ill. I knew that any human heart, no matter how jaded, hard or bitter, is capable of feeling the Spirit if the moment is right. I knew that the atonement could transcend any real or imagined cultural and political barrier to heal hearts. If enough hearts are healed then nations can be too.
I know that my sphere of influence is not large, but if enough people decide to be a force for good, then the evil doesn't have a chance. I know that it is easy to look at current situations in our world and say, "It is inevitable. Nothing can change these circumstances," or my favorite, "It is all prophesied anyway, what can I do to change the outcome?" Maybe that is true. Maybe war and contention is inevitable. Maybe we can't do anything to ulitmately change the decisions of kings, rulers, tyrants and presidents.
But we can pray.
We can pray every day that the hearts of evil men will be softened and that good people will be heard.
We can pray for our enemies as well as our soldiers.
We can pray that cooler heads will prevail and peace will be seen as the first option, not the soft option.
We can pray for the orphaned Iraqi and Afghani children to find solace and comfort.
We can pray that men and women of all religious persuasions will discern between true inspiration and false tradition.
We can pray for those who don't know to pray for themselves and speak for those who don't have a voice.
CS Lewis was once asked why he was praying so earnestly for his wife's recovery from cancer. Did he really think he could change the will of God? His reply was that he didn't pray to change God, he prayed to change himself. Maybe this is what we need. Prayers of pleading for soft hearts and busy hands and kind words.
In the next Spencer Kimball lesson there is a great quote about what a glorious thing it is to be a righteous woman, particularly during the winding up stages of this last, great dispensation. I carried this quote as a bookmark with me for many years. In the lesson, in two or three different places, he likens our sisterhood with the men's priesthood.
Dear Sisters! There is power in our prayers and in our love for one another. Let us, in some small way this week, each look beyond our immediate concerns and families, to find a way to bless somebody in desperate need of Christ's love. Even if we just take time to pray for violated women in refugee camps in Africa, for hungry children in Bahgdad, or ignorant girls in Afghanistan . . . . let us not forget that we are all children of God.
We have been blessed with so much. As we pray for the Lord to change hearts, lets allow him to work that change in our hearts too.
There is so much anger in the world--people fighting one another over things that are both silly and things that are serious. There are sick people out there, people who are mentally, spiritually or physical ill, or some combination of all three. Sometimes I feel like I am trying to row a wooden raft up a raging stream of difficulty. I struggle and struggle and the shore never seems any closer. This will undoubtedly sound familiar to some of you. And I so admire my many friends who seem to push against the rock with such cheerful attitudes!
I'm sure most of you have heard one of President Benson's most oft-quoted remarks about how the world would take the people out of the slums, but that Christ could take the slums out of the people, who then take themselves out of the slums. He also said that while men can work and fight to change human behavior, only Christ can change human nature.
I've been thinking much the last few days about the nature and power of the atonement. I have been thinking about what it means to be born again by degrees. What it means to accept Christ's sacrifice in exchange for a little more of ourselves each day. It is a hard and painful process. There are days it seems too hard. This week it seems too hard. But then, a couple of days ago, I was reading a very noisy blog that I haven't read before. The tone was combative and political and hardline. Most of the comments on the blog echoed her sentiments. I was most disturbed when I realized that this was a group of LDS people having this mean-spirited discussion.
And then I remembered a thing that happened to me many years ago, probably almost exactly ten years ago this month. A thing which I have carried in my heart these many years. A thing worth sharing when I think there is no way to combat the rising, evil tide threatening to engulf the things I hold dear . . .
I was street contacting people in one of the busiest walk-malls in Sydney. Missionaries were out there daily. This was not my typical area, we were there for the day because of a zone conference. The meetings would not begin until afternoon and we needed to work. My trainer took me out to this busy street and I thought I would wet my pants when she told me what we were going to do. Tracting was hard enough, but at least we were in a quiet country town with houses spaced some distance apart and contacts that hadn't been spoken to by Mormon missionaries every day for the past decade.
And the hecklers . . . .
Okay, it was HARD. One of the hardest things I'd ever done in my life up to that point. The only miraculous thing that happened that day was something that probably benefitted only me. I was getting eaten alive trying to contact walkers, so I began approaching people who were sitting. I approached one particularly swarthy looking man and began speaking to him. When he heard my American accent, I thought he would spit on my shoes.
He was from Iraq. He had gone into exile in Australia not long after the first Gulf War. I knew very little about that part of the world at the time, but I understood enough to know he blamed the Americans for the unraveling of his country. Saddam was bad, but the US led UN sanctions were strangling his people. He railed and railed.
I swallowed hard. I could have walked away, but I felt brave and I knew the Lord was with me. In perhaps my first, powerful missionary moment I began talking to him about the gospel. I told him that I knew he hated me and my country, but that I was in Australia representing only the Savior. My country didn't matter. What mattered was that I had come with a message of love and peace.
We spoke for several minutes. He became noticeably calmer and was even willing to engage in conversation. Suddenly he exclaimed that he felt good, he felt peace. He said, "Something tells me that if I came out here every day and just spoke to you, I could always feel this good, but you will go away and it will be gone." His anger immediately gave way to despair. His hopelessness was palpable and I could see a glimpse of his true inner self in a way that nearly broke my heart.
No! I insisted, it was the Holy Ghost that was testifying to him that I was teaching him truth. I told him that he could have that feeling any time he wanted and encouraged him to stop the missionaries or to attend our local building. My trainer came looking for me just minutes later, saying it was time to go. As I was only going to be there one day, follow-up would have been virtually impossible. I am quite sure that this seed I tried so desperately to plant fell by the wayside where it wasn't nourished properly.
But what this experience did for me . . . .
Well, that is the real crux of my message tonight. I knew, in that brief few minutes I spent talking to him, that Christ's love can heal any ill. I knew that any human heart, no matter how jaded, hard or bitter, is capable of feeling the Spirit if the moment is right. I knew that the atonement could transcend any real or imagined cultural and political barrier to heal hearts. If enough hearts are healed then nations can be too.
I know that my sphere of influence is not large, but if enough people decide to be a force for good, then the evil doesn't have a chance. I know that it is easy to look at current situations in our world and say, "It is inevitable. Nothing can change these circumstances," or my favorite, "It is all prophesied anyway, what can I do to change the outcome?" Maybe that is true. Maybe war and contention is inevitable. Maybe we can't do anything to ulitmately change the decisions of kings, rulers, tyrants and presidents.
But we can pray.
We can pray every day that the hearts of evil men will be softened and that good people will be heard.
We can pray for our enemies as well as our soldiers.
We can pray that cooler heads will prevail and peace will be seen as the first option, not the soft option.
We can pray for the orphaned Iraqi and Afghani children to find solace and comfort.
We can pray that men and women of all religious persuasions will discern between true inspiration and false tradition.
We can pray for those who don't know to pray for themselves and speak for those who don't have a voice.
CS Lewis was once asked why he was praying so earnestly for his wife's recovery from cancer. Did he really think he could change the will of God? His reply was that he didn't pray to change God, he prayed to change himself. Maybe this is what we need. Prayers of pleading for soft hearts and busy hands and kind words.
In the next Spencer Kimball lesson there is a great quote about what a glorious thing it is to be a righteous woman, particularly during the winding up stages of this last, great dispensation. I carried this quote as a bookmark with me for many years. In the lesson, in two or three different places, he likens our sisterhood with the men's priesthood.
Dear Sisters! There is power in our prayers and in our love for one another. Let us, in some small way this week, each look beyond our immediate concerns and families, to find a way to bless somebody in desperate need of Christ's love. Even if we just take time to pray for violated women in refugee camps in Africa, for hungry children in Bahgdad, or ignorant girls in Afghanistan . . . . let us not forget that we are all children of God.
We have been blessed with so much. As we pray for the Lord to change hearts, lets allow him to work that change in our hearts too.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Breast May Be Best, but Baring Your Breast Is Not
As Sunday is about to roll around again, I wanted to post on something I've been thinking about all week.
Last Sunday I decided I wanted to be a real person at church again, as opposed to "just" a nursing mother in a baggy tee shirt and skirt. To achieve this end actually wore a dress. It is possible to nurse in said dress, but it is a little tricky and not exceptionally modest. I've always been a little bit clumsy when it comes to getting my tykes latched on anyway, and have never been one of these women that can nurse in sacrament without even taking her eyes off the speaker.
That is the set up. Anyway, we woke Captain Tootypants up to get to church on time, and I just decided I would feed him right when we got to church so we could be on time. Of course, in the parking lot, I realized I had failed to bring a blanket and only had a burp rag. Again, more points against modestly nursing, so I bee-lined for the mother's room, knowing that there are few babies in our ward and I would likely be alone.
(Aside: This is the nicest mother's room I've been in. Rockers with ottomans, books to read, a sink, a changing pad and a basket of diapers to share, it is no where near the bathroom and there is a frosted window and a good sound system.)
I push open the door and see the curtain pulled back. I hear a woman say, "Okay, you guys have to get off the chair. I told you that if a mommy came to feed her baby, you'd have to get off." I walked around the curtain to see a very harrassed looking mother feeding a baby and three kids aged about 9, 7 and 4 standing there. They followed their mom's directions to get off the chair, but they just stood there. The four year old boy parked himself on the ottoman about two feet from where I sat down and just stared at me.
Thinking she'd ask them to leave in just a moment, I bounced CT on my knee for a moment, knowing that at any minute he was going to start wailing. She explained they were in the other ward (which had been out for half an hour) and her little miss wouldn't make it home without eating. I smiled and made a polite reply. She said nothing to her older children who were still just staring at me.
I bounced the baby another moment or two and said, "And are they going to stay here?" as I nodded toward her kids. She told them all to get behind the curtain. Bear in mind that the whole room minus the cupboard is maybe 7 feet by 5 feet and there are two large recliners in that space. The area behind the curtain is only a few square feet and wedged behind the door. She's got three good sized kids. One of the three made a move to get behind the curtain, the others just stayed where they were. My baby started to fuss.
There was almost a momentary stand-off. I was smiling politely, but trying to communicate that there is NO WAY I was going to disrobe with her children standing in the room. She was giving me the look like, "Lady, you have NO IDEA what it is like to take care of four kids!"
She blinked first and started stammering excuses about Dad, and how he was somewhere in the building (I'd had a fair amount of sympathy before this, thinking she was a single mom or something and not wanting her kids to run around the church.) She then stood up, unlatched her baby who began really wailing and glared at me as she said, "C'mon guys, we'll go find and empty classroom or something."
I apologized and said, "I didn't mean for YOU to go."
"It doesn't matter. We're leaving."
She was quite admanant and very huffy as they left. I felt really badly. If I had known she was in there in the first place, I would have waited outside walking my baby until she left. Nor am I sure how I could have handled the situation better. The mother is not in my ward, but I feel compelled to figure out who she is and let her know I'm sorry for the bad feeling caused. There could also have been some kind of extenuating circumstances that made her feel like the kids had to stay in there with her.
Now, when I say I felt bad, however, it is because of the awkwardness caused and the knowledge I may have offended someone who is probaby a very nice person. I do not feel bad because I think I did anything wrong. But until I was in and sitting down, I didn't realize she intended those kids to stay. And it wasn't like they were little kids. I think the oldest girl would have been entirely capable of keeping her younger brother and sister in check for a few minutes. Also, the door does say "Mother's Room," and it is a very tiny place. Just because she has no qualms about nursing in front of her children, doesn't mean that she should expect a total stranger to feel the same way. I don't even nurse in front of my own kids if I can help it! I'm just really modest (or maybe uncomfortable) when it comes to body stuff.
Now, I have a few really diehard nursing friends out there. I'm not saying that nursing is immodest or uncomfortable in any way, nor am I critical of women who choose to nurse in public. I just am not one of those who can. While people need to be sensitive and not critical of mothers who nurse, I think nursing mothers also need to be sensitive to the fact that everybody doesn't regard the practice with the same level of comfort.
So, advice? Funny nursing stories?
Last Sunday I decided I wanted to be a real person at church again, as opposed to "just" a nursing mother in a baggy tee shirt and skirt. To achieve this end actually wore a dress. It is possible to nurse in said dress, but it is a little tricky and not exceptionally modest. I've always been a little bit clumsy when it comes to getting my tykes latched on anyway, and have never been one of these women that can nurse in sacrament without even taking her eyes off the speaker.
That is the set up. Anyway, we woke Captain Tootypants up to get to church on time, and I just decided I would feed him right when we got to church so we could be on time. Of course, in the parking lot, I realized I had failed to bring a blanket and only had a burp rag. Again, more points against modestly nursing, so I bee-lined for the mother's room, knowing that there are few babies in our ward and I would likely be alone.
(Aside: This is the nicest mother's room I've been in. Rockers with ottomans, books to read, a sink, a changing pad and a basket of diapers to share, it is no where near the bathroom and there is a frosted window and a good sound system.)
I push open the door and see the curtain pulled back. I hear a woman say, "Okay, you guys have to get off the chair. I told you that if a mommy came to feed her baby, you'd have to get off." I walked around the curtain to see a very harrassed looking mother feeding a baby and three kids aged about 9, 7 and 4 standing there. They followed their mom's directions to get off the chair, but they just stood there. The four year old boy parked himself on the ottoman about two feet from where I sat down and just stared at me.
Thinking she'd ask them to leave in just a moment, I bounced CT on my knee for a moment, knowing that at any minute he was going to start wailing. She explained they were in the other ward (which had been out for half an hour) and her little miss wouldn't make it home without eating. I smiled and made a polite reply. She said nothing to her older children who were still just staring at me.
I bounced the baby another moment or two and said, "And are they going to stay here?" as I nodded toward her kids. She told them all to get behind the curtain. Bear in mind that the whole room minus the cupboard is maybe 7 feet by 5 feet and there are two large recliners in that space. The area behind the curtain is only a few square feet and wedged behind the door. She's got three good sized kids. One of the three made a move to get behind the curtain, the others just stayed where they were. My baby started to fuss.
There was almost a momentary stand-off. I was smiling politely, but trying to communicate that there is NO WAY I was going to disrobe with her children standing in the room. She was giving me the look like, "Lady, you have NO IDEA what it is like to take care of four kids!"
She blinked first and started stammering excuses about Dad, and how he was somewhere in the building (I'd had a fair amount of sympathy before this, thinking she was a single mom or something and not wanting her kids to run around the church.) She then stood up, unlatched her baby who began really wailing and glared at me as she said, "C'mon guys, we'll go find and empty classroom or something."
I apologized and said, "I didn't mean for YOU to go."
"It doesn't matter. We're leaving."
She was quite admanant and very huffy as they left. I felt really badly. If I had known she was in there in the first place, I would have waited outside walking my baby until she left. Nor am I sure how I could have handled the situation better. The mother is not in my ward, but I feel compelled to figure out who she is and let her know I'm sorry for the bad feeling caused. There could also have been some kind of extenuating circumstances that made her feel like the kids had to stay in there with her.
Now, when I say I felt bad, however, it is because of the awkwardness caused and the knowledge I may have offended someone who is probaby a very nice person. I do not feel bad because I think I did anything wrong. But until I was in and sitting down, I didn't realize she intended those kids to stay. And it wasn't like they were little kids. I think the oldest girl would have been entirely capable of keeping her younger brother and sister in check for a few minutes. Also, the door does say "Mother's Room," and it is a very tiny place. Just because she has no qualms about nursing in front of her children, doesn't mean that she should expect a total stranger to feel the same way. I don't even nurse in front of my own kids if I can help it! I'm just really modest (or maybe uncomfortable) when it comes to body stuff.
Now, I have a few really diehard nursing friends out there. I'm not saying that nursing is immodest or uncomfortable in any way, nor am I critical of women who choose to nurse in public. I just am not one of those who can. While people need to be sensitive and not critical of mothers who nurse, I think nursing mothers also need to be sensitive to the fact that everybody doesn't regard the practice with the same level of comfort.
So, advice? Funny nursing stories?
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Napoleon Dynamite, Eat Your Heart Out
Indulge me for a moment, I am going to tell you how wonderful my second child is. Until the Poopy Pirate was born, I didn't have any idea what we were missing. He was the most wonderful, beautiful baby that was ever born. He was so well behaved and nursed very easily and quickly. I never minded his four am wake up because it was so predictable and easy. His perfectly round little head was covered with so much dark hair that the nurse said, "I've never seen a white baby with that much hair." He had this precious, pensive way of pushing his eyebrows together that a photographer friend once captured perfectly.
Even now, it is hard for anyone to be around him more than a few minutes without saying, "There is just something about him . . ." I was convinced he was a daughter because I felt so close to him the whole time I was pregnant. We put off having him about six months because the timing was so much better if we waited, and of my three children, his was the birth I craved with every part of of my womanly heart. His labor and delivery was the best and fastest of my three. He spoke early and often, his vocabulary still often outstripping his understanding. He is quick to overcome his two year-old moods, often apologizing within minutes of bad behavior. His name, which will not be shared here, is my favorite of three exceptionally fabulous names and when written out in its entirety it looks like Scandinavian poetry, it is so beautiful and uniform. His spirit burst into our family with such a blaze of glory that I still tear up sometimes when I think of how important he is to me. Even my pediatrician said he was one of the most perfectly proportioned babies she'd ever seen and called him the cherub.
Have I waxed poetic enough? Anyway, I don't have favorites among my three excellent little men, and will (and have) undoubtedly gush(ed) over the others in posts future and past, but today P. Pirate takes the cake.
Yesterday I did my twice annual clothing swap and clean out. I went through six Rubbermaid containers of clothing yesterday, putting away almost too small summer things and pulling out almost too big winter things and deciding what new things need to be purchased, thanking my Heavenly Father again for the mellow personality of my second child who seldom gets anything new, and probably never will. Anyway, he found his too small snow boots from last year and insisted on wearing them most of the afternoon. Somehow the snow boots did not get back in their bucket in yesterday's rearrange and Poopy Pirate found them again this morning. He, of course, wanted to put them on again, but this time they ended up OVER his plaid jammy bottoms. I love kids. So here are pictures and the video that took forever to upload. Skip it if you want, but it really is pretty cute if you have a minute to humor a mother who I hope is guilty of too much love for her little freckle nosed boy.
I've also posted some pictures of my kitchen herb garden. A thing I've always wanted. This house has two things I've always desired--a light right above the sink and a large, sunny window for growing herbs. I think the sink light is the coziest thing in the world for reasons I may one day share, and the herbs fill my kitchen with the most pleasant smells and freshness. I've got rosemary, cilantro, chives and basil. The lovely varigated ivy is just an added bonus.
Even now, it is hard for anyone to be around him more than a few minutes without saying, "There is just something about him . . ." I was convinced he was a daughter because I felt so close to him the whole time I was pregnant. We put off having him about six months because the timing was so much better if we waited, and of my three children, his was the birth I craved with every part of of my womanly heart. His labor and delivery was the best and fastest of my three. He spoke early and often, his vocabulary still often outstripping his understanding. He is quick to overcome his two year-old moods, often apologizing within minutes of bad behavior. His name, which will not be shared here, is my favorite of three exceptionally fabulous names and when written out in its entirety it looks like Scandinavian poetry, it is so beautiful and uniform. His spirit burst into our family with such a blaze of glory that I still tear up sometimes when I think of how important he is to me. Even my pediatrician said he was one of the most perfectly proportioned babies she'd ever seen and called him the cherub.
Have I waxed poetic enough? Anyway, I don't have favorites among my three excellent little men, and will (and have) undoubtedly gush(ed) over the others in posts future and past, but today P. Pirate takes the cake.
Yesterday I did my twice annual clothing swap and clean out. I went through six Rubbermaid containers of clothing yesterday, putting away almost too small summer things and pulling out almost too big winter things and deciding what new things need to be purchased, thanking my Heavenly Father again for the mellow personality of my second child who seldom gets anything new, and probably never will. Anyway, he found his too small snow boots from last year and insisted on wearing them most of the afternoon. Somehow the snow boots did not get back in their bucket in yesterday's rearrange and Poopy Pirate found them again this morning. He, of course, wanted to put them on again, but this time they ended up OVER his plaid jammy bottoms. I love kids. So here are pictures and the video that took forever to upload. Skip it if you want, but it really is pretty cute if you have a minute to humor a mother who I hope is guilty of too much love for her little freckle nosed boy.
I've also posted some pictures of my kitchen herb garden. A thing I've always wanted. This house has two things I've always desired--a light right above the sink and a large, sunny window for growing herbs. I think the sink light is the coziest thing in the world for reasons I may one day share, and the herbs fill my kitchen with the most pleasant smells and freshness. I've got rosemary, cilantro, chives and basil. The lovely varigated ivy is just an added bonus.
Monday, September 17, 2007
We Heart Visitors
My parents came to visit this weekend, and I feel just how I always feel after such a visit. Sad and prosy. I had an English teacher in high school who said, "The memories and anticipation of summer vacation are more important that the actual holiday." I've anticipated their arrival for weeks; it has motivated me to clean, unpack, paint and decorate. Settle, in other words. But as I said goodbye to my mother this morning for I don't know how many months, I just feel gray and snarly. There are mountains of laundry I've put off for four blissful days, dishes galore and goopy leftovers. There is vacuuming to be done. Instead, I just feel like I want to crawl into my covers and have a good, selfish cry.
To combat this feeling of having been left adrift 700 miles away from my family, I instead will focus on the happy memories, hoping they will sustain us until the next visit. Because, as awful as "home"sickness feels, how much worse to NOT have a family I missed!
This is my mother talking with the Honey Hippie and his wife at the local farmer's market. This place is awesome. Plantboy has been telling me about it for weeks, but we haven't gone yet. The organic produce side was incredible and the smells in the air were divine, but even more fun was the arts and crafts portion. I have such a love for silly, dangly earrings in all their forms and it was a homemade jewlery paradise. I passed on the tarot reading, however.
Plantboy took our picture while we posed under this huge, double hanging basket. The inside of my house is nearly settled, the next job will be to get going on our yard. If I can get past the snakes and spiders, gardening here will be heaven.
To combat this feeling of having been left adrift 700 miles away from my family, I instead will focus on the happy memories, hoping they will sustain us until the next visit. Because, as awful as "home"sickness feels, how much worse to NOT have a family I missed!
This is my mother talking with the Honey Hippie and his wife at the local farmer's market. This place is awesome. Plantboy has been telling me about it for weeks, but we haven't gone yet. The organic produce side was incredible and the smells in the air were divine, but even more fun was the arts and crafts portion. I have such a love for silly, dangly earrings in all their forms and it was a homemade jewlery paradise. I passed on the tarot reading, however.
Plantboy took our picture while we posed under this huge, double hanging basket. The inside of my house is nearly settled, the next job will be to get going on our yard. If I can get past the snakes and spiders, gardening here will be heaven.
STM's Dad posing with Poopy Pirate and Captain Tootypants. We spent several minutes trying to get CT to smile, but he just kept looking at me with the dazed over face that said, "Too much flash."
Scallywag Plankwalker wanted to be a farmer after church on Sunday, after a discussion about where carrots come from, so I got him all dressed up. Then he decided it was more fun to shoot bad guys than to plant crops so he added the hat below and became a cowboy. An Aussie cowboy; Plantboy doesn't have a real cowboy hat. The one below is from his Indiana Jones phase.
Next time my parents come we want to spend a day at the coast and hike to the lighthouse, or maybe see the Sea Lion Caves . . . so I will look back with fondness and anticipate the future with hope and look for small happinesses from day to day.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Now My Brain Really Is Exploding
Okay, this latest Mormon you've-got-to-be-kidding-me thing makes my last post look stupid. I was going to keep the last post up for a few more days to get some more discussion going because I think it is very interesting, and I'm definitely going to reply to Karate Mommy, but Plantboy found this link on MSN today and I just had to blog.
This is completely apalling to me. Still, I had to laugh at how airbrushed these guys look. Please view and comment. Now this is a discussion worth having.
This is completely apalling to me. Still, I had to laugh at how airbrushed these guys look. Please view and comment. Now this is a discussion worth having.
Is This Right?
I really want some comments here, because I am close to forming an opinion and I need to get some feedback. What I really wanted to title this post was . . . .
You Have Got To Be Kidding Me!!??!!??
But I thought that might show my opinion was set in stone, when I really do want to hear some arguments on the other side.
A little background first--my mother's ward is a normal mix of older and younger women, lots of kids of all ages, and a fairly active Relief Society, so Enrichment attendance is high. Like a lot of wards, when the Enrichment format changed, they started a book club. I've never really patronized the RS book clubs--mostly it has been a timing problem. I've also been careful to never advertise any book club I was a part of in church.
For one thing, if you start talking about it at church, you give an open-ended invitation. I don't know if this is always a good thing. My book club in Texas nearly imploded when we had 15 people show one week. Also, that first book club was started with the idea that we would try to look outside church-genre books to read things we weren't used to and that were worth discussing; books you grew richer for having read. We also read some just for fun books. I've always felt pretty strongly that if it is a church-sponsored book club, you had to be VERY careful what you read--church books, squeaky clean YA literature, or old classics, that kind of thing
Anyway, my mother calls the other day to tell me the book club in her Relief Society is reading TWILIGHT.
This is where my brain exploded. I think this is wrong on so many levels:
a) Just because the author is LDS doesn't mean this book was published by an LDS publishing house, who, for all their other faults, do at least try to publish things within the parameters of LDS doctrine.
b) If this is happening in RS book clubs even across Utah, this is going to mean loads of money for Mrs. Meyer. After all, the waiting lists are a mile long and if you want to read it this month you have to buy it.
c) Other than a brief discussion on agency if you are really stretching, there is nothing in this book really even worth discussing. (The Logan book club--not church affiliated--did read this and our discussion much more revolved around "Why do women like this kind of thing so much?")
d) The book is about VAMPIRES for crying out loud. Even with Meyer's rather clever twist, and Twilight being much less gothic in tone than New Moon, it is just freaky subject matter.
e) The whole icky tension sleeping NEXT to my boyfriend but not WITH my boyfriend thing because I'm Stephanie Meyer and I do have to maintain a minimum level of chastity here scene ought to exempt it forever from mention in church.
f) With the whole wide world of really wonderful books out there, is this really what RS should be reading? The word is ENRICHMENT.
So, while I'm unloading all my grievances on Plantboy, he counters with, "Well, isn't the purpose of the new Enrichment program to socialize; to come up with focused activities that women really want to attend?"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
That is the sound of my mouth open and nothing coming out of it. I didn't really know what to say to that. It is the same "argument" we use to have when I was on the YW board. Is mutual primarily spiritual or primarily social? If you say spiritual, you plan activities that don't attract nearly as many girls, but they are wonderful for the ones who come. If you say social, you pack in more kids, but what do they really take away besides some fun? Should they be taking away something more? And the social activities often alienate kids who aren't as socially adept. So the compromise is a combination of the two, which is what usually happens.
But my real question is: Can't activities be both? Can't we increase sociality and spirituality at the same time? If reading and discussing books is something that can "enrich" us, then can't we choose books that will enrich us spiritually and socially?
I must admit, over the past two months I've been pretty grouchy about the whole vampire book love among LDS women, but I actually liked Twilight. New Moon was entertaining enough, although I must say that afterward I felt kind of dark--suicide, a city of vampires preying on stupid tourists, her misguided attempts at throwing some religion into the narrative, werewolves who maul their girlfriends, months upon months of depression--there is just a lot there that doesn't led itself to cheerfulness.
Anyway--lets get some feedback here so I can try to get a clearer idea of how I feel about things: The point of church activities? Is a book club, particularly a church-sponsored one, obligated to be more than just pure entertainment? Do share.
You Have Got To Be Kidding Me!!??!!??
But I thought that might show my opinion was set in stone, when I really do want to hear some arguments on the other side.
A little background first--my mother's ward is a normal mix of older and younger women, lots of kids of all ages, and a fairly active Relief Society, so Enrichment attendance is high. Like a lot of wards, when the Enrichment format changed, they started a book club. I've never really patronized the RS book clubs--mostly it has been a timing problem. I've also been careful to never advertise any book club I was a part of in church.
For one thing, if you start talking about it at church, you give an open-ended invitation. I don't know if this is always a good thing. My book club in Texas nearly imploded when we had 15 people show one week. Also, that first book club was started with the idea that we would try to look outside church-genre books to read things we weren't used to and that were worth discussing; books you grew richer for having read. We also read some just for fun books. I've always felt pretty strongly that if it is a church-sponsored book club, you had to be VERY careful what you read--church books, squeaky clean YA literature, or old classics, that kind of thing
Anyway, my mother calls the other day to tell me the book club in her Relief Society is reading TWILIGHT.
This is where my brain exploded. I think this is wrong on so many levels:
a) Just because the author is LDS doesn't mean this book was published by an LDS publishing house, who, for all their other faults, do at least try to publish things within the parameters of LDS doctrine.
b) If this is happening in RS book clubs even across Utah, this is going to mean loads of money for Mrs. Meyer. After all, the waiting lists are a mile long and if you want to read it this month you have to buy it.
c) Other than a brief discussion on agency if you are really stretching, there is nothing in this book really even worth discussing. (The Logan book club--not church affiliated--did read this and our discussion much more revolved around "Why do women like this kind of thing so much?")
d) The book is about VAMPIRES for crying out loud. Even with Meyer's rather clever twist, and Twilight being much less gothic in tone than New Moon, it is just freaky subject matter.
e) The whole icky tension sleeping NEXT to my boyfriend but not WITH my boyfriend thing because I'm Stephanie Meyer and I do have to maintain a minimum level of chastity here scene ought to exempt it forever from mention in church.
f) With the whole wide world of really wonderful books out there, is this really what RS should be reading? The word is ENRICHMENT.
So, while I'm unloading all my grievances on Plantboy, he counters with, "Well, isn't the purpose of the new Enrichment program to socialize; to come up with focused activities that women really want to attend?"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
That is the sound of my mouth open and nothing coming out of it. I didn't really know what to say to that. It is the same "argument" we use to have when I was on the YW board. Is mutual primarily spiritual or primarily social? If you say spiritual, you plan activities that don't attract nearly as many girls, but they are wonderful for the ones who come. If you say social, you pack in more kids, but what do they really take away besides some fun? Should they be taking away something more? And the social activities often alienate kids who aren't as socially adept. So the compromise is a combination of the two, which is what usually happens.
But my real question is: Can't activities be both? Can't we increase sociality and spirituality at the same time? If reading and discussing books is something that can "enrich" us, then can't we choose books that will enrich us spiritually and socially?
I must admit, over the past two months I've been pretty grouchy about the whole vampire book love among LDS women, but I actually liked Twilight. New Moon was entertaining enough, although I must say that afterward I felt kind of dark--suicide, a city of vampires preying on stupid tourists, her misguided attempts at throwing some religion into the narrative, werewolves who maul their girlfriends, months upon months of depression--there is just a lot there that doesn't led itself to cheerfulness.
Anyway--lets get some feedback here so I can try to get a clearer idea of how I feel about things: The point of church activities? Is a book club, particularly a church-sponsored one, obligated to be more than just pure entertainment? Do share.
Friday, September 07, 2007
This Medium Gets Me Thinking
I was going to post a second comment on Nem's latest post, but when I last logged in there were already 37 comments. What I wanted to say was just way too much to reasonably be called a comment, and so I'm posting myself. And while its true that a lot of the people who traffic her blog, don't traffic this one, I think it is worth hearing some new opinions on this and related subjects. For those of you that don't read her "Voice Of Reason," today may be the day to start, including all 37 comments.
I think my lengthy comments inspired by her post must be in context of a personal situation and I can only do that on my OWN blog, so here goes.
For those of you that have read here for a while and know me, you know that I was engaged to be married within a few weeks of being home from my mission, and was unengaged a month or so later. We dated for a few more weeks, fizzled, and he was engaged just a couple of weeks later to somebody else. For all the great experiences I've had and my usual ability to laugh off awkward or difficult situations soon after they happen, this broken engagement is not something I've ever been able to laugh about. My decisions leading up to the engagement, some of my actions during the engagement and my severe depression afterward revealed things to me about my character. Things that scare me. The scriptures tells us the weak things can become strong; I wonder if the Lord means that those weaknesses keep us close to Him as we fight against them . . .
Anyway, after the engagement was broken I was speaking with a friend, who had the "wisdom" of four or five years of marriage behind him. I was thoroughly confused and questioned, "Why did this not work out? We were both impressed strongly that it was the right thing. How could it not be the right thing now?" It sounds a little desperate to say that this was my attitude, but he was, after all, the only boyfriend I'd ever had in five years of dating eligibility and he had waited for me on my mission, I was six months from graduation and living with my grandmother. I thought I had missed my ONE chance for marriage in this life.
My friend explained something very powerful to me that I've never forgotten. I'll quote him here, but it is an obvious paraphrase as his exact wording is lost, "When the Spirit speaks to us, we are obligated to act. When we don't act on promptings, when we doubt, when we refuse to move forward with faith and confidence, the Spirit will cease to work on us. Just like on your mission, a baptism slip is a terrible thing. If a person doesn't act on the Spirit, and moves into the realm of doubt, it is that much harder for them to feel the promptings again, by not acting, they move away from the peace the Lord would have given them had they continued forward. By harboring doubts, even after he asked you to marry him, by not being faithful to you and his commitment, the Spirit stopped whispering peace to his heart."
In the Doctrine and Covenants its says, "Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning this matter, what greater witness can you have than from God?"
Why this is relevant to Nem's post (if you didn't read it) is that a misguided object lesson in Relief Society inspired her post and a slough of very touching, personal and difficult comments. The central issue, at least to my mind, behind all this discussion is, why are relationships between men and women so confusing and difficult? The comments read like a laundry list of the many things that can go wrong. And, in most cases (my own certainly included) the quick comments try to simplify a very complex issue.
On further reflection, I think my thoughts stray back to what my friend said all of those years ago when I was in such need of answers. Maybe when it comes to marriage and parenting and serving and friendships and covenants, the Lord is less in interested in if we are ready and more concerned if we are willing. Because the truth is, we'll never be ready. I'm eight years and three kids into this journey called marriage and there are very real days when I don't think I'm going to survive another one.
I know this sounds like another simplistic explanation, and not a fresh one. We hear all the time that men are afraid of "commitment" and I agree that the above paragraph sounds like semantics, but the spirit of it is different. The unwillingness to commit is a psychological, or even biological label for the difficulty people having in getting and staying together. I'm talking about something spiritual. I'm talking about two people looking at one another and saying, "Okay, you aren't perfect, not even close, but neither am I. Still, I'm willing to show up every day to make this work if you are."
My husband was attractive and sweet and worthy when we first met, but he is so much more now. In another forty or fifty years, I imagine he won't be so attractive any more, but he will be even more wonderful. And it won't be because he married me! It will be because he will have kept his commitment with faith every day, even when it was hard. And when he or I or any married or single person falters away from that commitment in any degree, there is repentance to get us back on track so that we can "learn from our mistakes without being condemned by them." (Elder Hafen, from a conference address about three years ago.)
I don't think we need more psychological solutions and surveys to explain why it is hard for marriage to survive our culture of cynicism and immorality, I think we need testimonies of the atoning blood of the Savior and the restoration of His church and its principles. We need to teach our young people--the young women AND the young men--to love themselves enough to make choices that will guide them through times of loneliness or difficulty. Such times will abound in our lives, and it is only by acting in faith that we can receive the peace we all long for and seem to find so elusive in these times.
I think my lengthy comments inspired by her post must be in context of a personal situation and I can only do that on my OWN blog, so here goes.
For those of you that have read here for a while and know me, you know that I was engaged to be married within a few weeks of being home from my mission, and was unengaged a month or so later. We dated for a few more weeks, fizzled, and he was engaged just a couple of weeks later to somebody else. For all the great experiences I've had and my usual ability to laugh off awkward or difficult situations soon after they happen, this broken engagement is not something I've ever been able to laugh about. My decisions leading up to the engagement, some of my actions during the engagement and my severe depression afterward revealed things to me about my character. Things that scare me. The scriptures tells us the weak things can become strong; I wonder if the Lord means that those weaknesses keep us close to Him as we fight against them . . .
Anyway, after the engagement was broken I was speaking with a friend, who had the "wisdom" of four or five years of marriage behind him. I was thoroughly confused and questioned, "Why did this not work out? We were both impressed strongly that it was the right thing. How could it not be the right thing now?" It sounds a little desperate to say that this was my attitude, but he was, after all, the only boyfriend I'd ever had in five years of dating eligibility and he had waited for me on my mission, I was six months from graduation and living with my grandmother. I thought I had missed my ONE chance for marriage in this life.
My friend explained something very powerful to me that I've never forgotten. I'll quote him here, but it is an obvious paraphrase as his exact wording is lost, "When the Spirit speaks to us, we are obligated to act. When we don't act on promptings, when we doubt, when we refuse to move forward with faith and confidence, the Spirit will cease to work on us. Just like on your mission, a baptism slip is a terrible thing. If a person doesn't act on the Spirit, and moves into the realm of doubt, it is that much harder for them to feel the promptings again, by not acting, they move away from the peace the Lord would have given them had they continued forward. By harboring doubts, even after he asked you to marry him, by not being faithful to you and his commitment, the Spirit stopped whispering peace to his heart."
In the Doctrine and Covenants its says, "Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning this matter, what greater witness can you have than from God?"
Why this is relevant to Nem's post (if you didn't read it) is that a misguided object lesson in Relief Society inspired her post and a slough of very touching, personal and difficult comments. The central issue, at least to my mind, behind all this discussion is, why are relationships between men and women so confusing and difficult? The comments read like a laundry list of the many things that can go wrong. And, in most cases (my own certainly included) the quick comments try to simplify a very complex issue.
On further reflection, I think my thoughts stray back to what my friend said all of those years ago when I was in such need of answers. Maybe when it comes to marriage and parenting and serving and friendships and covenants, the Lord is less in interested in if we are ready and more concerned if we are willing. Because the truth is, we'll never be ready. I'm eight years and three kids into this journey called marriage and there are very real days when I don't think I'm going to survive another one.
I know this sounds like another simplistic explanation, and not a fresh one. We hear all the time that men are afraid of "commitment" and I agree that the above paragraph sounds like semantics, but the spirit of it is different. The unwillingness to commit is a psychological, or even biological label for the difficulty people having in getting and staying together. I'm talking about something spiritual. I'm talking about two people looking at one another and saying, "Okay, you aren't perfect, not even close, but neither am I. Still, I'm willing to show up every day to make this work if you are."
My husband was attractive and sweet and worthy when we first met, but he is so much more now. In another forty or fifty years, I imagine he won't be so attractive any more, but he will be even more wonderful. And it won't be because he married me! It will be because he will have kept his commitment with faith every day, even when it was hard. And when he or I or any married or single person falters away from that commitment in any degree, there is repentance to get us back on track so that we can "learn from our mistakes without being condemned by them." (Elder Hafen, from a conference address about three years ago.)
I don't think we need more psychological solutions and surveys to explain why it is hard for marriage to survive our culture of cynicism and immorality, I think we need testimonies of the atoning blood of the Savior and the restoration of His church and its principles. We need to teach our young people--the young women AND the young men--to love themselves enough to make choices that will guide them through times of loneliness or difficulty. Such times will abound in our lives, and it is only by acting in faith that we can receive the peace we all long for and seem to find so elusive in these times.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Sandition
I've figured out which Jane Austen heroine I think I really am.
Charlotte Heywood.
Now, lest some of you Austenphiles out there say, "Who?" I will explain: About six months before her death, Austen began a manuscript titled Sandition. The heroine in a girl from the country who, through a fortunate set of a circumstances, comes to spend the summer in a minor (fictitious) beach resort town called Sandition. She wrote 11 short chapters in three months and then never wrote any more. She died in June of that year. The manuscript survived and was passed to her family. Literary critics have always considered the incomplete novel as a "minor" work. Several people, including a relative of Austen's have attempted to finish it. The one I read was published in 1975, though Amazon lists a reprint in the 1998 that is the same. Anyway, the result is really excellent. The link above is to the copy I read, and apparently is the most popular. Knowing it was written mostly by a second author (whom the cover refers to as "another lady" and even Wikipedia acknowledges that there are at least two different names for this woman) forces me to see that it doesn't have Austen's subtely or sedateness, but it is very witty and the plot is, well, delightful. Sandition falls somewhere in between Austen and Georgette Hyer. (If you haven't read Heyer, I suggest reading The Foundling first. Less comedy of manners than Austen, more heavy on crazy plot twists.)
I've seen on several blogs people linking to a website that lets you figure out which Austen character you are. The problem is, that as I read the questions, they seemed to be written by a person who has merely seen movies made of Austen's books without actually having read them. For this reason, you can only become an Austen heroine who became a part of a screenplay. Also, I have seen these movies often enough to force my answers to turn me into Elizabeth Bennet, which character I've always wanted to be. But after reading Sandition, I think it must be Charlotte Heywood. I'm less polished than Miss Lizzie and certainly have even more provincial background than the Bennets. Miss Heywood is practical, average and fond of observing the foibles of others. She also completely falls apart when she falls in love. She reminds me so much of myself in my early 20's that it is almost uncanny.
Maybe I should do the screenplay for Sandition . . . .
Charlotte Heywood.
Now, lest some of you Austenphiles out there say, "Who?" I will explain: About six months before her death, Austen began a manuscript titled Sandition. The heroine in a girl from the country who, through a fortunate set of a circumstances, comes to spend the summer in a minor (fictitious) beach resort town called Sandition. She wrote 11 short chapters in three months and then never wrote any more. She died in June of that year. The manuscript survived and was passed to her family. Literary critics have always considered the incomplete novel as a "minor" work. Several people, including a relative of Austen's have attempted to finish it. The one I read was published in 1975, though Amazon lists a reprint in the 1998 that is the same. Anyway, the result is really excellent. The link above is to the copy I read, and apparently is the most popular. Knowing it was written mostly by a second author (whom the cover refers to as "another lady" and even Wikipedia acknowledges that there are at least two different names for this woman) forces me to see that it doesn't have Austen's subtely or sedateness, but it is very witty and the plot is, well, delightful. Sandition falls somewhere in between Austen and Georgette Hyer. (If you haven't read Heyer, I suggest reading The Foundling first. Less comedy of manners than Austen, more heavy on crazy plot twists.)
I've seen on several blogs people linking to a website that lets you figure out which Austen character you are. The problem is, that as I read the questions, they seemed to be written by a person who has merely seen movies made of Austen's books without actually having read them. For this reason, you can only become an Austen heroine who became a part of a screenplay. Also, I have seen these movies often enough to force my answers to turn me into Elizabeth Bennet, which character I've always wanted to be. But after reading Sandition, I think it must be Charlotte Heywood. I'm less polished than Miss Lizzie and certainly have even more provincial background than the Bennets. Miss Heywood is practical, average and fond of observing the foibles of others. She also completely falls apart when she falls in love. She reminds me so much of myself in my early 20's that it is almost uncanny.
Maybe I should do the screenplay for Sandition . . . .
Monday, September 03, 2007
Brown Polyester
Nemesis posted several days back about things she learned from the various jobs she held over the years. Lately, Scallywag's favorite show is Dirty Jobs. I'm sure you've all seen this. Talk about muck to money for Mike Rowe. If you haven't noticed, lately the Discovery Channel should be called AllMikeAlltheTime Network. Anyway, the Mormon People (I've always loved this term. It gets the same feeling as the "Amish" or the "Puritans" or even the "Huegonots." I picture long-faced pioneer women with eighteen kids and 6,000 jars of peaches in the cellar. Speaking of funny Mormonisms, the CES theme this year is "Anxiously Engaged." Funny theme for a demographic of mostly singles I think. And the single adults in this area are getting ready for a big conference where there will be lots of "hands-on" activities. Hm . . . I'm not really a person who looks for innuendo, but could this be misconstrued by some? But I digress . . . )
Where was I?
Oh yea, the Mormon people have always had work as a major cornerstone of our whole culture. After all, you can't take a swamp and turn it into one of the most beautiful cities in Illinois in just a few years without some serious sweat. This concept of work is so ingrained in us that I think I'm not alone in saying that I often feel guilty if I am just sitting or taking leisure time. Even my hobbies feel like they need to be justified--blogging is journaling, scrapbooking is family history, reading is self-improvment and so forth. So I have been thinking a lot about the various jobs I've had over the years. The funny, gross parts of each job as well as what I learned. So from time to time when I have nothing much else to blog about, I'll give an installment from each of my various minimum wage jobs. And if anybody has fast food stories to share, do tell, do tell. I never had to ask anybody if they wanted fries with anything.
Just before my 15th birthday, my dad came home from home teaching one night to tell me that he had found me a job. My reply, "I was looking for a job?"
Anyway, the man he home taught ran a tiny restaurant in our home town and he was switching from serving breakfast and lunch to lunch and dinner and was looking for afternoon help. It is important to note here that I was already mortally terrified of this man, not my dad, the owner of said establishment. Lets call him . . . Chef Grouchypants. I only knew CG from church, and I'd never been in his restaurant. He generally smiled at adults and wore a bland or furrowed expression in regards to every child he saw. He had a spotty past. At least, I thought he did, that was never very clear to me. Oh, and one of his arms was skinnier than the other; like all the muscle had been stripped from his forearm. Maybe that is why he was grouchy?
I went in for the "interview" which was a formality because he really liked my dad. I probably didn't realize that at the time and I wanted to wet my pants while I sat through the interview. During the interview he gave me pointers on how to interview. In fact, I think part of his mission at the cafe was to educate high school kids on the miseries of the work place. He scared me to death.
I washed dishes and bussed tables for many months at just over $4 an hour. I ruined several shirts because all of our dishes had to be double rinsed--once in a bleach solution. When mom coulnd't drop me off in the mini-van I rode my bike to work. Nobody "cool" ever came to eat there, and I was overcome with embarrassment every time I would see somebody from the ward there. Especially my parents. My job was everything that was the opposite of working at a really glamorous minimum wage job, like the GAP.
As organized and careful as I am now, I'm amazed at the number of times I looked at the schedule wrong and either came in late or not at all and had to be called. I was embarrased and apologetic every time and I know Chef Grouchypants thought I was the biggest flake he could have possibly hired. I had blonde hair then and put up with his stereotypes.
After nearly a year of this, I found out that my friend who worked at the diner was going to be trained as a waitress. This friend will figure a lot into this story, so lets call her Pocohantas. (I actually was her college roomate when Disney's Pocohantas came out and she really looks a lot like her--build and everything.) I was shocked beyond belief. She was almost exactly my age (neither of us were 16, though she looked 20) and had started work several months after me. I "screwed all my courage to the sticking place" and decided to CONFRONT MY BOSS about this. Even at 15 I was fairly assertive, if a little flaky and not very articulate. The conversation follows. What I thought during this exchange will be in paranthesis
Chef Grouchypants' reply? "You showed no interest in becoming a waitress."
"Of course I'm interested." (Of course I'm NOT interested! I just think I'll make more money that way and I'm talking about a sense of rightness and fairness . . .)
"I haven't always felt you've been very committed."
"Oh, I'm committed." (Keep the sarcasm out of your voice, keep the sarcasm out of your voice.)
"You asked for all that time off for the play. It seems that you are much more interested in other pursuits."
"I won't have anything like that come up for some time." (The play had been five months previous, I'd asked for 3-4 afternoons for practices and 3 days for performances almost a month in advance.)
It went back and forth like this for some minutes and in the end he finally agreed to train me. And he was probably right; it must be said that Pocohantas was a MUCH better waitress than I was. I don't know that she had much more common sense than I did when it came to that sort of thing, but she definitely knew how to please people. I didn't. And I didn't much care when I didn't. Oh, and her boobs were bigger. We could work the same type of people the same shift and her tips would be twice as high as mine. I never quite perfected the nervous giggle at stupid jokes that she was so great at.
Waitressing didn't pay much better, for me, than bussing, our chief demographic being old people and/or Mormons. We were also seldom that busy. I put up with it for a few more months, Pocohantas (she really was my friend despite my snarky attitude. We actually went shopping every week and spent most of our tip money on the clearance rack at the GAP and then spent half the year sharing clothes, which always looked better on her. But I degress again.)
Pocohantas ran for and made junior class office (I didn't; I ran I just didn't make it) and walked in to work in late August of that year and requested every Friday night off until December. She couldn't miss a football game. That meant, of course, that I would work every football game. I'd been 16 for four months and never been on a date. I thought working every Friday night would be tantamount to social suicide, because, of course, a social life in high school is the foundation for the rest of your life. I gave my two week notice. I thought Chef Grumpypants would kill me. And, it must be said, that he spent most of that shift banging pans in the kitchen.
I cried like a baby when I handed in my brown polyester jumper. Not for any remorse over never darkening the doors of Food For Thought Cafe again, but because I'd only managed to put about $200 dollars in the bank in two years and I had ten dollars in cash from my last two nights of tips. I also knew I'd burned a bridge. Pocohantas spent the rest of high school there, got offered a lucrative commission-job as a wedding dress fitter/salesperson by a couple that she waited on almost every time they came in to the cafe. She was able to work there weekends through college; they let her work any weekend she could because they loved her so much.
I learned some pretty lousy things there. I learned that if your boss doesn't like you, especially in the case of a personality conflict, you can just forget about having decent treatment at work, even if you bust your chops. I learned that sometimes you just aren't pretty enough to get the big tips. I learned that some adults never really grow up and even seem to take pleasure in bullying kids. I learned that some people can eat clam chowder every Saturday even in the dead heat of summer just because it is their habit to do so. Halibut and beer batter makes the best fish and chips. And nothing says "Pack in the Old People" like advertising stuffed pork chops for dinner.
However, Chef Grouchypants also taught me that if you want things done the right way, you have to work really hard and not give up too much to other people. (This can also be a bad thing, I suppose.) I made some good friends there. I went to my first concert with TWO of our dishwasher boys, whom I thought were both exceptionally cute. Unfortunately they both wanted to DATE Pocohantas, but I seemed to be better friends with them. Pocohantas became a lifelong friend and later a college roommate. Where yes, she continued to get all of dates and I'd become friends with all the leftovers. I learned that disappointment and coming in second doesn't kill you. It makes you tough.
And I learned something else from Pocohantas despite this story making it sound like she got everything I thought I wanted. One day, after payday, she and I planned to go shopping. We stopped at her house first. She had just bought her first car, a Supra from the mid-eighties that she'd saved and saved for, and we were just changing before heading to the nasty old Ogden Mall. Her mother picked up her paycheck and said, "Ooo. . . is this one mine? I need some groceries." I gritted my teeth to keep my mouth from dropping open. My friend replied, "No. This one is mine." She later confided that it was the first paycheck in several weeks that she was refusing to give up. So her family could eat.
Pocohantas now has a lot of money; she is a doctor. Whenever I feel any pang of jealousy for that big house on the hill I think of that one interaction I witnessed and I remember how hard she has always worked, and how much was handed to me that I never earned. And I don't feel jealous. I feel proud to know that she and I shared our first job together. While our lessons were obviously different, there is one person out there who shares my feelings exactly for brown and peach polyester.
Wow! If you made it through you are a real trooper. But remember, I'm justifying my blogging as journaling, so today I decided for a little life history. Stay tuned for the next exciting installment called "Are You My Mother?"
Where was I?
Oh yea, the Mormon people have always had work as a major cornerstone of our whole culture. After all, you can't take a swamp and turn it into one of the most beautiful cities in Illinois in just a few years without some serious sweat. This concept of work is so ingrained in us that I think I'm not alone in saying that I often feel guilty if I am just sitting or taking leisure time. Even my hobbies feel like they need to be justified--blogging is journaling, scrapbooking is family history, reading is self-improvment and so forth. So I have been thinking a lot about the various jobs I've had over the years. The funny, gross parts of each job as well as what I learned. So from time to time when I have nothing much else to blog about, I'll give an installment from each of my various minimum wage jobs. And if anybody has fast food stories to share, do tell, do tell. I never had to ask anybody if they wanted fries with anything.
Just before my 15th birthday, my dad came home from home teaching one night to tell me that he had found me a job. My reply, "I was looking for a job?"
Anyway, the man he home taught ran a tiny restaurant in our home town and he was switching from serving breakfast and lunch to lunch and dinner and was looking for afternoon help. It is important to note here that I was already mortally terrified of this man, not my dad, the owner of said establishment. Lets call him . . . Chef Grouchypants. I only knew CG from church, and I'd never been in his restaurant. He generally smiled at adults and wore a bland or furrowed expression in regards to every child he saw. He had a spotty past. At least, I thought he did, that was never very clear to me. Oh, and one of his arms was skinnier than the other; like all the muscle had been stripped from his forearm. Maybe that is why he was grouchy?
I went in for the "interview" which was a formality because he really liked my dad. I probably didn't realize that at the time and I wanted to wet my pants while I sat through the interview. During the interview he gave me pointers on how to interview. In fact, I think part of his mission at the cafe was to educate high school kids on the miseries of the work place. He scared me to death.
I washed dishes and bussed tables for many months at just over $4 an hour. I ruined several shirts because all of our dishes had to be double rinsed--once in a bleach solution. When mom coulnd't drop me off in the mini-van I rode my bike to work. Nobody "cool" ever came to eat there, and I was overcome with embarrassment every time I would see somebody from the ward there. Especially my parents. My job was everything that was the opposite of working at a really glamorous minimum wage job, like the GAP.
As organized and careful as I am now, I'm amazed at the number of times I looked at the schedule wrong and either came in late or not at all and had to be called. I was embarrased and apologetic every time and I know Chef Grouchypants thought I was the biggest flake he could have possibly hired. I had blonde hair then and put up with his stereotypes.
After nearly a year of this, I found out that my friend who worked at the diner was going to be trained as a waitress. This friend will figure a lot into this story, so lets call her Pocohantas. (I actually was her college roomate when Disney's Pocohantas came out and she really looks a lot like her--build and everything.) I was shocked beyond belief. She was almost exactly my age (neither of us were 16, though she looked 20) and had started work several months after me. I "screwed all my courage to the sticking place" and decided to CONFRONT MY BOSS about this. Even at 15 I was fairly assertive, if a little flaky and not very articulate. The conversation follows. What I thought during this exchange will be in paranthesis
Chef Grouchypants' reply? "You showed no interest in becoming a waitress."
"Of course I'm interested." (Of course I'm NOT interested! I just think I'll make more money that way and I'm talking about a sense of rightness and fairness . . .)
"I haven't always felt you've been very committed."
"Oh, I'm committed." (Keep the sarcasm out of your voice, keep the sarcasm out of your voice.)
"You asked for all that time off for the play. It seems that you are much more interested in other pursuits."
"I won't have anything like that come up for some time." (The play had been five months previous, I'd asked for 3-4 afternoons for practices and 3 days for performances almost a month in advance.)
It went back and forth like this for some minutes and in the end he finally agreed to train me. And he was probably right; it must be said that Pocohantas was a MUCH better waitress than I was. I don't know that she had much more common sense than I did when it came to that sort of thing, but she definitely knew how to please people. I didn't. And I didn't much care when I didn't. Oh, and her boobs were bigger. We could work the same type of people the same shift and her tips would be twice as high as mine. I never quite perfected the nervous giggle at stupid jokes that she was so great at.
Waitressing didn't pay much better, for me, than bussing, our chief demographic being old people and/or Mormons. We were also seldom that busy. I put up with it for a few more months, Pocohantas (she really was my friend despite my snarky attitude. We actually went shopping every week and spent most of our tip money on the clearance rack at the GAP and then spent half the year sharing clothes, which always looked better on her. But I degress again.)
Pocohantas ran for and made junior class office (I didn't; I ran I just didn't make it) and walked in to work in late August of that year and requested every Friday night off until December. She couldn't miss a football game. That meant, of course, that I would work every football game. I'd been 16 for four months and never been on a date. I thought working every Friday night would be tantamount to social suicide, because, of course, a social life in high school is the foundation for the rest of your life. I gave my two week notice. I thought Chef Grumpypants would kill me. And, it must be said, that he spent most of that shift banging pans in the kitchen.
I cried like a baby when I handed in my brown polyester jumper. Not for any remorse over never darkening the doors of Food For Thought Cafe again, but because I'd only managed to put about $200 dollars in the bank in two years and I had ten dollars in cash from my last two nights of tips. I also knew I'd burned a bridge. Pocohantas spent the rest of high school there, got offered a lucrative commission-job as a wedding dress fitter/salesperson by a couple that she waited on almost every time they came in to the cafe. She was able to work there weekends through college; they let her work any weekend she could because they loved her so much.
I learned some pretty lousy things there. I learned that if your boss doesn't like you, especially in the case of a personality conflict, you can just forget about having decent treatment at work, even if you bust your chops. I learned that sometimes you just aren't pretty enough to get the big tips. I learned that some adults never really grow up and even seem to take pleasure in bullying kids. I learned that some people can eat clam chowder every Saturday even in the dead heat of summer just because it is their habit to do so. Halibut and beer batter makes the best fish and chips. And nothing says "Pack in the Old People" like advertising stuffed pork chops for dinner.
However, Chef Grouchypants also taught me that if you want things done the right way, you have to work really hard and not give up too much to other people. (This can also be a bad thing, I suppose.) I made some good friends there. I went to my first concert with TWO of our dishwasher boys, whom I thought were both exceptionally cute. Unfortunately they both wanted to DATE Pocohantas, but I seemed to be better friends with them. Pocohantas became a lifelong friend and later a college roommate. Where yes, she continued to get all of dates and I'd become friends with all the leftovers. I learned that disappointment and coming in second doesn't kill you. It makes you tough.
And I learned something else from Pocohantas despite this story making it sound like she got everything I thought I wanted. One day, after payday, she and I planned to go shopping. We stopped at her house first. She had just bought her first car, a Supra from the mid-eighties that she'd saved and saved for, and we were just changing before heading to the nasty old Ogden Mall. Her mother picked up her paycheck and said, "Ooo. . . is this one mine? I need some groceries." I gritted my teeth to keep my mouth from dropping open. My friend replied, "No. This one is mine." She later confided that it was the first paycheck in several weeks that she was refusing to give up. So her family could eat.
Pocohantas now has a lot of money; she is a doctor. Whenever I feel any pang of jealousy for that big house on the hill I think of that one interaction I witnessed and I remember how hard she has always worked, and how much was handed to me that I never earned. And I don't feel jealous. I feel proud to know that she and I shared our first job together. While our lessons were obviously different, there is one person out there who shares my feelings exactly for brown and peach polyester.
Wow! If you made it through you are a real trooper. But remember, I'm justifying my blogging as journaling, so today I decided for a little life history. Stay tuned for the next exciting installment called "Are You My Mother?"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)