Staycation

My parents and older brother's family came to visit last week and we rented a house at the beach (about an hour and a half away) for a couple of days. We easily had as much fun as if we had traveled some place far and wide. It was a real Oregonian staycation. Here are the highlights complete with pictures. Oh, wait, never mind. I. LEFT. MY. CAMERA. HOME. So when my mother gets around to figuring out how to e-mail me pictures from the trip (sometime in 2011), I'll make sure to post them.

Highlight #1: After an afternoon beach excursion with really high tide, we picked up a tide table chart which told us that at seven the next morning the tide would be at its lowest point all summer, and practically all year. Those of us with a naturalist bent got up early the next day and were amazed to see the ocean TEN feet lower than it had been the previous afternoon. We saw all kinds of crabs and shellfish, hundreds and hundreds of starfish of all different colors and sizes, and thousands of anenomes and mussles growing in and on every exposed rocky surface. The best part might have been clambering up and over rocks with my nearly 38 year-old brother like we were kids again.

Highlight #2: The responsible parents (my brother and I) decided that dune buggy-ing was off the table when we found out how much it would cost. Then my generous sugar daddy saved the day. (Not Jeff, my actual father.) He foot the bill for us all to take a 30 minute ride on the dunes. It was totally awesome. Like a 30 minute roller coaster ride that shoots sand into every part of you. The best part might have been laughing and screaming over each bounce with my nearly 30 year-old brother like we were kids again.

Highlight #3: Spending real time with my 13 year old nephew and his 10 year-old sister whom I am finally getting to know on a different level. I love each stage my kids are in, and I can see that as I begin to enter the next phase with my oldest (tweenie) there will be many wonderful things to look forward to.

Highlight #4: Picking blueberries with my parents, and convincing dad to stop at every little selling-something-Oregon place. He went home with smoked salmon, local honey, blueberry jam and roasted hazelnuts. Mom took me shopping one afternoon and we bought all the kids and Oregon Ducks tee shirt.

Highlight #5: Coming home to a bumper potato crop--blue, yukon gold and red, and another wave of strawberries. The carrots are also looking fantastic in orange, purple and white. Plantboy loves his unusual produce.

And though I've been off staycation for a few days, my ultimate Oregon experience was picking blackberries this morning at 5:30. It was actually quite tranquil watching the sunrise over the blackberry patch, all alone and enjoying the only bit of nice weather we are going to have all day (record highs forecast this afternoon). Of course, blackberry thorns make rose thorns look like love-pokes. There was one point where my pants were trapped, a huge spike was digging into my back and my rapidly unbraiding hair was stuck in the branch just above where I stood. Still, all in all, very peaceful.

Now what awesome thing would get to visit if I came to your town and joined you for staycation?

And Then She Ripped the Cable From the Wall and Hung Herself

Obviously I'm trying to avoid the above scenario, so I'm in desperate need of advice over something really critical:

Which Internet provider/phone company/technology to use?

Here is our current scenario:

We have two cell phones with unlimited in-network calling and some number of minutes that I can never keep track of. $80.

We have cable through Comcast (mostly for Plantboy) as well as high speed cable Internet (mostly for STM). $90. I've called frequently to negotiate pricing and they usually bite for a few months but then jack the price back up.

Because I was overshooting my minutes when we initially moved here, I picked up a landline through Vonage. My initial price there was about $15. Currently, $25. I tried to cancel a while ago, but I hadn't been with them long enough and was going to have to pay a hefty-ish cancellation fee. I have now been with them long enough to avoid said fee if and when I cancel.

In other words, it is costing me around $200/month to stay in contact with the outside world, which seems ridiculously expensive. Some things have recently shifted for us--we are moving our computer to another room and need the cable dude to come anyway to hook it up in the new spot, though wireless is seeming more appealing all the time; our phone contract is up for renewal and Verizon has a new and improved family plan; and I'm thinking about DVR.

Options:

1--Chuck everything and just buy a bunch of stamps. (You remember stamps, don't you?) And a rotary phone.

2--Ditch Vonage and go to cell phone only with the increased minutes plan (pros and cons for those of you who have tried this?)

3--Write a nasty letter to Comcast telling them where they can stuff all the money I've sent their company over the last few years. But then I'm left looking for somebody else to do Internet and Cable.

4--Don't succumb to the DVR, or do. (Movie trivia: "Technologically speaking, the world is out of hand; I mean, take the VCR, for example, the whole idea behind the VCR is that it makes it possible for you to tape what's on television when you leave the house. Of course, the whole idea behind leaving the house is so you can miss what's on television.")

So how do you manage all of this vitally important stuff? How have you found the best deals? Who are your providers? Does ANYBODY out there feel like they are getting their money's worth? Or, if you have nothing to add, just throw out random bits of your favorite movies from the nineties.

But mostly, be quick. I'm probably going off-line for a few days starting tomorrow. (Yes, yes, I'm hoping to survive it.)

Coming Out of the Closet

This post is about six months overdue.

It has taken me that long to put my thoughts in order, though I still have my doubts about how it will all come out on paper, and how each of you will react. But here goes nothing.

When I was living near Sydney in the mid-nineties, there was a newspaper headline one day that sent several of us into paroxysms of laughter, not because of its sentiment but because of the sensationalized presentation. “Nation of Bastards” declared the headline in print big enough to see across the street. Skimming the front page told us what the missionaries had long suspected—according to the latest census, more Aussies were born to unwed parents than to married couples.

In fact, the Aussie government was set up to favor the “de facto” relationship: dole benefits were higher for two singles than for a family and couples living together for a paltry number of months were eligible for all benefits offered to married couples. It wasn’t uncommon for you to hear missionaries practically gushing over some awesome family they had just found with the caveat, “Of course, they are just de facto, but all they have to do is get married!” A “simple” thing that was much easier said than done in most cases.

Not long after the nation-of-bastards report, our mission president spent an entire zone conference on the importance of the law of chastity and the evil of fornication. He told us that as missionaries, because we had seen so many people choosing sex before (and often instead of) marriage, we had become complacent about the importance the Lord placed on this sacred commandment. As with all laws that involve the beginning and ending, or giving and taking of life, the law of chastity is a very big deal.

Ironically, while murder is illegal and abhorrent, promiscuous sexual activity is not only legal, but encouraged with few reservations by most sections of society. Some months back I heard an interview with a prospective Catholic priest who responded thus when asked about priests being hard to recruit because of the chastity requirement, “We live in a hyper-sexualized society.” And his belief that our children are being taught that their identify is completely wrapped up in their sexuality, when truthfully their worth is far beyond that.

Blogs everywhere last fall lit up with talk about defining marriage, the Church’s role in passing Proposition 8, civil rights and moral decay. But not this blog. I would occasionally comment on somebody else’s post concerning the issue, but my responses were wishy-washy—catered carefully to avoid controversy to whatever message the blog author seemed to be advancing. And some of these ideas were at divergent ends of the debate.

Some weeks ago, a Facebook friend from high school wrote a scathing status update about the California Supreme Court, bigots in general, and Mormons specifically. I was shocked; her parents are very conservative and still live very near my parents. She herself seemed like such a Molly in high school; maybe I didn’t know her very well, but it seems apparent that she has left behind all she once held dear (or perhaps never actually did?) and is leading a very different life now. She is not a lesbian, but she is a huge defender of homosexuality in general. Anyway, I have often commented on this person’s page about trivial things, but on that day I found myself paralyzed and unable to say anything. Several comments followed her statement, all in agreement, though one was a little bit committed in her support for the more conservative position. This particular commenter was lambasted from about six different people within a few minutes for daring to suggest that it was possible to feel love toward people choosing a homosexual lifestyle, even if you disagreed with their actions on principle. The “love the sinner, hate the sin” argument didn’t fly with anybody who was a part of the core discussion, who basically said that to ever call somebody else’s behavior sinful is to be judgmental, hypocritical and, above all, unloving.

I didn’t comment.

I could see first of all that only one opinion was sought or mattered, that it wasn’t a discussion at all, just a place to Mormon-bash. I felt that to state my feelings on these matters would be casting my pearls before swine. I knew that getting involved would make me feel unhappy and lose the Spirit.

And yet . . . .

I’m not good at backing down from a position. Especially if what we are fighting with is words. I felt as though making the decision to quietly close Facebook that day was the same as hiding my light under a bushel. But mostly I feared that my reticence was due in part to the fact that this issue, even after so many months, is still incredibly difficult for me.

A letter was read in our ward when the fight for Prop 8 first came up. Many others told me they didn’t hear this letter—I wonder if it was just read in the Western US? The letter basically stated that members of the Church were to use time, resources and energy in order to pass Proposition 8. I was secretly glad NOT to live in California where I might be expected to walk door to door to get out the vote. I couldn't imagine approaching my neighbors with what seemed like a level of judgment that might alienate half of them.

I started to read a lot of arguments from both sides. My debate and science background has taught me to 1- Try to see things from each side before stating a position and 2- to question everything. I have to be honest, the arguments in support of gay marriage are very, very compelling. (This is why it is called “sophistry.” If it wasn’t compelling or believable then it would be easier to ignore.)

I spent some weeks struggling to figure out just what it was I believed. Who I believed. Plantboy and I had a long conversation one afternoon. As usual, I was well-spoken, reasoned and logical; and also characteristically, Plantboy reacted to such a question with faith. He listened at some length, honestly attempting to understand the depth of my agitation and said, “Do you believe the President Monson is God’s prophet?”

I was unable to answer him. At that time I had not yet prayed specifically to receive my answer for that. So I put questions about Prop 8 on the shelf and instead I focused on my testimony of modern revelation.

And I decided that following the prophet was more important to me that understanding the hows and whys of homosexuality and civil rights. I say "to me" because I know many people who absolutely do NOT feel that way, nor do I think they should just because I do.

I know many of you who read here. You will no doubt say, “Duh! Follow the prophet. Just like that primary song that sticks in your head for 24 hours after you've heard it.” But for me it was not that straightforward and potentially threatened to become my worst faith crisis since, well, ever. I’ve since read other blogs where there is discussion of Mormon theology on a level that is far beyond what we do at Sunday School. It seems that there are as many ways to follow the doctrines of the LDS church as there are members. And while the anonymity of the blogosphere gives rein for people to speak openly and personally in a way that provides incredible connection (see comments from my last post if you wonder what I’m talking about), I also wonder if that anonymity allows us to air grievances that are better worked through privately. Maybe all this community discussion and venting prevents us from getting on our knees and taking it to the Lord. Sometimes I wonder if, in our quest to understand all the details and have every single question answered, we lose the big picture.

I still have a lot of things I don’t understand. And when I think about people who are both LDS and gay, my heart aches. I think this issue will be the great sifter in our time—ERA in the 70’s and early 80’s; Priesthood Authority in the late 80’s and early 90’s; homosexuality in well, whatever it is we call this decade. People will leave the church in droves over this. Our brothers and sisters. How can the prophet not weep to follow through with what he believes the Lord has directed him to do and say? What I believe the Lord has directed him to do and say.

But the last six months have taught me one thing: when I read arguments against church leadership (on whatever issue) or criticism of the way some things have been handled, for all the heartache it makes me feel, the Spirit doesn’t speak to me. But when I hear talks like this, or this . . . . my soul sings for joy and I know I am listening to the Lord’s servants. Will they make mistakes? Probably. They are men. But it would be a bigger mistake for me to put other voices ahead of theirs.

I heard a woman give a talk recently in Sacrament meeting that was almost brutal in its honesty about struggles she has endured in the last few years with her testimony, activity and commitment. She mentioned, briefly, a friend who is a lesbian. The friend, in front of a large group of colleagues, very forcefully confronted this sister about her religious beliefs and her stand on rights for gay people. This dear sister said very calmly, “I don’t know why you are the way you are, or why I am the way I am, but I believe that we can find that place of love in the middle and move forward together.” They embraced.

I know that for many this philosophy is too simple. And they will continue to search and study and read and dig. If that is you, I sincerely hope you too will be able to come to that place of peace. I hope that I can continue to walk that line between compassion and obedience. Mostly, I hope that in the end I come down on God’s side, and that I’m bold enough to be honest with those I love about it.

Oh, Lord, help thou mine unbelief.

A Mother Heart

I know somebody who is enduring a lot of difficulty right now. One of these many difficulties is an unexpected pregnancy that has put her in the hospital on three months' bedrest. As hard as that sounds, it is really the tip of the iceberg. She is excited for the baby, but overwhelmed about how all the rest of everything will be managed.

Another problem at which all I can do is throw a casserole.

Or not. The baby coming is a boy; my friend's other children are girls. My own baby is two, and about a month ago I felt very compelled to give her my stuff. All of it. Now, you might say that it sounds like I'm making some sort of decision here. I'm not. I still can't get the right inspiration about my BIG question, but I do know I'm supposed to give away my stuff.

As it turns out, she doesn't need the furniture, but she does need nearly everything else. Tonight, for family home evening, I went through three huge bins full of gorgeous boy baby clothes aged o-18 months. I culled them yet again for Goodwill-worthy items, pulled out the wee things with the most sentimental value, and boxed the rest of lovingly used baby things for my friend. I packed away my like-new Boppy for when she nurses her little man; the one with the cover that matches the nursery I never got to have for the Youngling. I packed up my bouncy chair too; maybe they will finally put some batteries in it, a thing I never did.

I've told myself for two weeks I was going to do this. Tonight I hoped to feel some sense of relief or closure as I de-cluttered my life and found a happier home for all of these things. Instead I found myself saying, several times, "I have to keep THAT! All three boys wore it, and the next one will need to also!" or "I couldn't stand it if there was another baby and I'd given THIS away." And I cried. Not a lot, but some. My three little boys helped Plantboy pull out the old peas, spread compost and put in the fall crop of carrots and beets. So grown up. So energetic. So not babies.

My heart is so full tonight with emotions I cannot explain or understand, at least not entirely. I feel an odd mixture of nostalgia, confusion, wistfulness and sorrow for just how short their tiny years are. And yet, when you are in the middle of that babyhood it is so hard--at least for me it is. I was never all that naive about the difficulty of having kids: even with number one the decision to go forward was scary beyond all reason. In a lot of ways, I feel like I don't want to have a baby. I don't want the sleepless nights, aches, pains, gear and worries that come in those first couple of years. I don't really want to give my body over to somebody else so wholly again.

But I don't want to regret either.

So I'll just send these thoughts out into the void tonight, trying to understand the tears streaming down my face even as I write. Trying to understand how this mothering thing can be so fulfilling and draining at the same time. Trying to remember how sweet and perfect their little bodies were in those impossibly tiny clothes. Trying to decide if my sacrifice is enough.

Trying to find a place where I can exist simultaneously with this mother-creature that lives in me too. Trying to decide if the love that I have for my three little men will be enough to fill the hole that threatens to tear me open sometimes . . . .

Star Wars Mispronunciations

No doubt, if you have ever seen young children play Star Wars you have listened while they fight Dark Fader using their Light Savers, or even Life Savers. If you have seen children REALLY into this, then you have probably also heard "Vice-droid" for Viceroy or "The Fanta Menace" for Phantom Menace (From the lesser-known Episode VII: The Soda Wars) or "Dead Star" for Death Star. You have know doubt heard the word "Force" used as a verb: as in, I'm going to Force you with my hand/mind, or I'm going to Force that book off the shelf to hit you in the heard. The very direct, "I'm Forcing you!!!!!" is maybe my favorite.

Watching the "Clone Wars" regularly has also given them a whole new array of mis-pronunciations and nicknames. R-2 is "Aretooie," for example. I've also learned the subtle differences in Assassin droids, battle droids and fighter droids. I've learned that the barely perceptible striping patterns and the colors on the clones determine if they are commanders or regular clones, and that you can even tell the names of the clones depending on these same obscure markings. And yes, my friends, the clones have names.

I have not, however, figured out the pattern for deciding who is "bad" and who is "good." Not as easy as you think, my friends. Clones are always good, Storm Troopers are always bad, yet if you have seen the movies (as we have, 44 times, all but Episode III), you know that Clones and Storm Troopers are THE SAME. And Anakin, of course, becomes The Darth. Apparently after being treated for emphysema.

But yesterday, I heard a new favorite, while the Lego droid fighters were cruising around my house, the droids were yelling, "WATCH OUT FOR THE REPUBLICAN WARSHIPS!" For all you non-geeks out there, it should be "Republic."

If you know a child that loves all things Star Wars, you must check out this link. And this link. Be prepared for laughter, lots of it. And it might not all be coming from your super-fan child. It makes more and more sense to me every day why I was gifted with boys.

No, Really, My Neighborhood is the Coolest

This year is the first time we've been at this address on the 4th of July. I don't know if we will ever be anywhere else again.

The festivities actually go on for several nights. We are right on the edge of the urban growth boundary (a rather complicated and controversial law put into place in the late 70's in Oregon to help limit urban sprawl), so there is an enormous field about a block north of us. Until this weekend, I thought the field was only useful for the luscious free blackberries growing on the borders that we harvest there each summer. It turns out that the field is also the venue of a local rodeo over the 4th of July weekend each year. The rodeo runs Thursday-Sunday and each night there are fireworks at about 10 pm.

A lot of people don't like to pay to get into the rodeo, but they like to watch the fireworks, which are always the biggest the night of the 4th. Naturally, if you want to see the fireworks, our neighborhood is the best spot for that.

My neighbors take this seriously, and assume the responsibility to entertain all of the visitors to our neck of the woods with a pre-fireworks show. The festivities kicked off at about 7 pm, when our neighbor a few houses up hosted the annual Firework Derby. Each participant builds a car and then powers it with any firework legally sold in Oregon. The starting line is sidewalk chalked onto the street and cars are pitted against one another. Measurements are taken, also written in chalk on the street and a winner declared. There is no race-off as most of the entered cars go down in flames. One car went at least 20 feet, but in circles, parallel to the starting line, and even backwards and ended up with a score of about 15 inches.

The crazy part? There were few actual kids entered in the contest. It was mostly adults. Drinking adults. The guy in charge is actually one of the sons of a neighbor; he started the tradition nearly 10 years ago in high school and still comes back every 4th of July to run the Derby. We found out too late to make an entry . . . . but next year! Watch out.

We got the kids in their jammies and put the baby to bed; I told Jedi and Padawan that I'd take them on a walk around the block and if the big fireworks started we would stop to watch. In the two hours we'd been in the house, our neighborhood had transformed itself into the pyromaniac's Mecca. Cars lined both sides of our entire loop, with lawn chairs on each driveway. There were barbecues going on at every other house, with huge fireworks being exploded at every third or fourth house. And.I.Mean.Huge. I've never seen anything like it: kids running with wild abandon through the streets with sparklers, boys no bigger than Jedi lighting and throwing firecrackers, Roman candles shooting 20 feet in the air, huge cases of launch-fireworks igniting one after another fifty feet in the air sending sparks all the way to the ground, teenagers tossing used fireworks into a flaming pile in the gutter, heedless of whether there might still be explosive energy left inside, and everywhere, everywhere, plenty of beer flowing.

We made our way around the block and walked down a cul-de-sac to visit one of Jedi's friends from school who looked like he was outside with his family. Their back yard backs right up to the field and they invited us back just as the rodeo-fireworks were starting. As we walked past their gutter, there was a gigantic pile of spent fireworks, what must have been hundreds of dollars, worth and the acrid smell of sulfur in a thick cloud of smoke. Friend's mom gave all the kids glow-stick necklaces and bracelets, so that we could find them in the dark as we tramped through the woods into the stubbled field.

After walking through the Gauntlet, the rodeo fireworks were a bit anti-climatic, truthfully. We dragged our way home in the dark to the final strains of God Bless America, exhausted, but with a renewed sense of determination. Our house is at the street's entrance. We may have a responsibility to the greater good next year. . . . to get visitors to the Cul-de-Sac of Fire of to a good start. There will be plenty to live up to. It was 10:30 when we got home, and I think some of our neighbors were just getting started.

So what cool things does your neighborhood do together? Or better yet, did you ever do something really stupid while you were drinking? You are welcome to post anonymously on the second. ;)

Those Cheeky Founding Fathers

Today in the car, the jedis asked about why our holiday for America is on the 4th of July. Well, my scamps love a good story, so I spun a tale for them. I told them about great men and vicious tyrants. I told them about words inflammatory enough to lead two countries to war. I told them about a vastly outmanned ragtag group of guerillas who defeated the greatest army in the world up to that time. I told them about fairness and equity and freedom. Padawan (only 4 years old, remember?) interupted when I said the date of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, "THAT is where the 4th of July comes from!"

Indeed.

I love that we don't count our country's birth from the day we were made truly united--in the mid 1860's, or from the day we fought our first major war as a country--in 1812, of from the creation of our constitution--1798, or even from some major date in the American Revolution. No, we say that our country was made on the day that WE DECLARED IT TO BE SO. When those great men signed their names to paper, committing to a cause greater than themselves; a cause that might be argued as the greatest cause ever, they said that from this day on, we are independent. And we will do whatever it takes to defend our right to say so.

I loved the first National Treasure movie. There are just so many great lines from it, but one of my very favorite is when Nick Cage's character (Ben Gates) and his buddy Riley are contemplating the Declaration at the National Archives. (A funny scene if you have been there, by the way. The archives are much smaller and darker and the Declaration is in such bad shape as to be prety much illegible.) Here is the exchange, and then Ben later comments to the curator of the archives his feelings about the men who signed this document:

Ben: Of all the words written here about freedom, there's a line here that's at the heart of all the others. "But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object, evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty to throw off such government and provide new guardsfor their future security."

Riley: People don't talk that way any more.

Ben: Beautiful, huh?

Riley: No idea what you said.

Ben: It means, if there's something wrong, those who have the ability to take action have the responsibility to take action.

(Later scene) Ben: A toast . . . to high treason. That's what these men were committing when they signed the Declaration. Had we lost the war, they would have been hanged, beheaded, drawn and quartered, and Oh! my personal favorite -and had their entrails cut out and burned! So, here's to the men who did what was considered wrong in order to do what they knew was right.

There are things worth dying for. And if not called upon to do so, then let us not forget there are things worth living for also.

We hold these truths to be self-evident: That ALL men are created equal. That they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Garden Pictures and Nothing To Say

Okay, I'm totally lying. I have loads to say, but I'm trying to channel some energy into novel-writing this summer. I just finished the most wretched book with the prettiest cover. (I drool a little bit every time I see anything Tiffany-blue and I'm sure that is why I picked it up in the first place.) Just the thought of this book on the best-seller list kind of makes me throw up in my mouth. It was as though somebody had a marginally good idea for a plot, and then forgot to actually do any writing. Oh, and each chapter is between 2 and 4 pages so the book as 75 + ridiculously choppy little chapters. The pain. The horror. The frustration.

Anyway, here are some pictures from our garden, courtesy of Plantboy. I have a lengthy, thoughtful post in the works, but it is taking some time to get my thoughts together in some cohesive fashion. (It could be a very LONG time if I'm waiting for that happy event. . . . )

Um . . . this last one isn't our garden, too bad. It is a place called Alsea falls where Plantboy took the older boys on the father's and sons' outing. In a couple of years, it will be my favorite weekend of the year!

A Patriotic Post Three Weeks Early

American history teaches us that political discourse has always been very volatile: from the earliest Jefferson-Hamilton rivalry to the question of slavery to the Vietnam War to our current financial meltdown. War times and tough economic times will always flush out sharply divergent opinions and philosophies, as well as everything in between. We are going through both right now. This "war on terrorism" and its various battlefields is one of the most confusing conflicts in our history. Each action and its intended (or unintended!) consequences have created a bevy of hot button issues--debt, torture, America's role in foreign affairs, rights of detainees, responsibilities toward veterans, energy and where it is purchased, troop withdrawal, what it means to "win," etc. No doubt you have your own opinions about many or all of these things.

When all of these truly difficult problems are thrown together with our sliding economy after a culmination of years of bad choices both by governments and individuals, well . . .

It is no wonder that people disagree. Even violently disagree. Yet, even with this understanding, and a legitimate desire to things from other perspectives, something happened several weeks ago that shocked me. I was talking with an older woman for whom I have enormous respect. She grew up during the Depression and is part of that "greatest generation" about whom we hear so much. She lived during the second great war and the upheaval of Communism and the Cold War. Her children came of age during the cultural revolution of the sixties and seventies. She saw the way the money made in the 80's and 90's spoiled her grandchildren, but also gave them opportunities she had never even dreamed possible at their age. Her life experience--politically, socially, historically and culturally is rich and full.

During a visit with her, the conversation drifted to politics (not my idea, believe it or not) and she became very angry when speaking about the current course of our government and commended with great fervor one of her children for being involved in a local "tea party." Her vitriol was aimed mostly at our current commander-in-chief, but also at Democrats in general. Though I don't remember hardly any specifics from her rant (was she specific?), she did say, "All this stuff going on lately, and all that they are talking about doing! It is no better than living in Nazi Germany!"

Um . . . .

Again, I have too much love and respect for this person to have even dreamed of contradicting her. But her words greatly disturbed me. Maybe in part because it isn't the first time, or from that single source, that I've heard such language.

I didn't post about this earlier because I didn't want this to turn into an I LOVE DEMOCRATS campaign platform, nor did I want it to be perceived as such. In fact, I think it is safe to say that I don't really like political parties at all. I like good ideas. I'm also the first to admit that what I see as a good idea might not at all match what you think is a good idea. Sometimes only time and perspective can judge whether an idea is good or bad; I think this is especially true in politics where new ideas might change things dramatically, but slowly. I guess I'm more of a wait and see person when it comes to government involvement in most things.

So why am I bringing this up at all, if it happened weeks ago and it was something I didn't intend to post about? I'm reading a book called Reading Lolita in Tehran. It is memoir written by a woman who left Iranian academia (she'd been a lit professor) when the Ayatollah's government just made it too oppressive to teach any longer. On the sly, she started a book group that met weekly over the course of a couple of years. They read only banned books. (And before you start thinking, well, what is the good of reading banned books???!!!??? Please note that one of the titles the group read was Pride and Prejudice. It is safe to say that the Iranian censors have a very strict standard of "acceptable.")

Reading Lolita is a good book, though a bit intellectual for my taste. These women read deeply and can create a whole morning's discussion out of a single obscure passage. I've been a lot more interested in the bits where the author describes the women's lives and how this little act of rebellion--this studying of literature--helped them cope with all they are dealing with. Glimpsing a world outside their own gave them to hope for a different future. Studying the diverse and strong women in the works helped them maintain their individuality. Instead of feeling like cogs in a machine to be acted on, the felt some measure of control over their own lives.

I read the following passage today and it prompted this post,

Gradually my life and family became part of the landscape . . . . one day my daughter, Negar, burst in crying . . . between tears [I] held her in my arms and tried to calm her. Gently I took off her navy scarf and robe; under the thick scarf her hair was damp with sweat. . . I asked her to tell us what had happened. That day in the middle of her last class, the principal and the morality teacher had barged in and told the girls to put their hands on their desks. The entire class had been escorted out of the classroom, without explanation, their school bags searched for weapons and contraband: tapes, novels, friendship bracelets. Their bodies were searched, their nails inspected. One student, a girl who had returned from the United States the previous year with her family, was taken to the principals' office; her nails were too long. There, the principal herself had cut the girl's nails, so close that she had drawn blood. Negar had seen her classmate after they were dismissed in the school yard, waiting to go home, nursing the guilty finger. The morality teacher stood beside her, discouraging other students from approaching. For Negar, the fact that she couldn't even go near and console her friend was as bad the the whole trauma of the search. She kept saying, "Mom, she just doesn't know about our rules and regulations; you know, she just came back from America--how do you think she feels when they force us to trample on the American flag and shout, Death to America? I hate myself, I hate myself, " she repeated as I rocked her back and forth and wiped the mixture of sweat and tears from her soft skin . . . . Everyone tried to distract Negar by joking and telling her stories of their own, how once Nassrin had been sent to the disciplinary committee to have her eyelashes checked. Her lashes were long, and she was suspected of using mascara. "That's nothing!" said Manna, "next to what happened to my sister's friends at the . . . .university. During lunch three of the girls were in the yard eating apples. They were reprimanded by the guards: they were biting their apples too seductively!"

I'm not sure what my older friend meant by our country starting to resemble Nazi Germany. Did she mean the government had begun to infiltrate too many aspects of our lives? (Interesting observation--not long ago she had a major surgery that would not have been possible without Medicare. Her ability to live alone would not be possible without her social security payments. The medicine she takes regularly for her various health issues would not be affordable without government subsidy.) Did she mean that taxes are too high? Though, truthfully, even if she paid taxes, they would be as low as at any time since the Depression. If she meant the cultural and political acceptability of homosexuality and other moral issues, then she can only be dead wrong: in Nazi Germany homosexuals were sent to concentration camps by the thousands, a purple triangle on their prison garb instead of a yellow star.

Next time you want to criticize the government, great! Criticize away. It is this dialogue that makes America great.

You hate high taxes? Wonderful! Write your Congressman without fear that your words will land you in prison.

You think a government-run health care plan is the equivalence of Communism? Fantastic! Say whatever you want about it on your blog without anxiety that website will be pulled and your name being put on a watch list.

Do you hate Obama? No worries! You can vilify him (even using racist language if you are so inclined) and as long as you don't make a direct threat, nobody can touch you.

But as you rant and rave, please consider two things, particularly if your criticism involves complaining about the government getting too involved in your life. First, the very fact that you can complain, criticize or even condemn any course of action pursued by the American government makes you a member of the most free society anywhere on earth. Not just at this time, but ever. And if you are a woman making these complaints, well, that makes you part of an even more elite group. Never have women, ever, in the history of the world, enjoyed the freedom that American women have now.

And secondly, say a silent prayer for our Iranian brothers and sisters who have shown this week that they too love liberty. There may not be enough of them yet to stand up and make a difference. It may be years yet before there is a critical mass who insists on their agency, even as imperfect as we all are, but the news this week out of Iran is heartening to freedom-loving people everywhere. America can never impose our democracy in the Middle East, but it doesn't mean that the people are incapable of choosing it for themselves. As we pass the 20th anniversary of Tiananmen Square and watch the Iranian riots unfold in stolen cell-phone transmissions, let us each take a moment to remember that it isn't just our own brave men and women who have died in the cause of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Democracy and agency can never be forced on a people. It must be chosen.

As we each chose our own path and allow others to do the same, let us not forget just how good we really have it. Go America!

Unsure How To Feel

Those of you who have kept up with my other blog must be saints. And the 1.6 of you who have actually done that know who you are. For those of you who don't have a clue what I'm blathering on about, I'll back up.

Late last summer I got my (last) rejection letter for my Abish novel. The turn-around time from Deseret Book was fast enough that I have my doubts as to whether or not it was read. Cedar Fort actually spent a moment considering it a year ago, but nothing came of it. Abish's first rejection came from Covenant. (Which still frustrates me: my current draft is so much better there is no competition.)

Poor little novel. Not a very auspicious start.

Still, I felt like there was a message in the story that I wanted to share and have spent the last several months publishing it to my other blog. It was not supposed to be this way. I was supposed to do a "final" edit and then publish a chapter every few days with the whole project taking about six to eight weeks. That was six to eight MONTHS ago. And yes, I know it is very likely the most shockingly awful way to read a novel. I won't be trying that again. Anyway, the edit is done now, so you can look for the last two chapters in the next week. Really.

The reason I am bringing all of this up is that during this recent edit, I e-mailed a copy to one of my book group friends here in town. She is a sister in my ward that I trust enormously and relate to really well. She loves to read for meaning, but also enjoys a good story. I knew I could count on her to be honest.

What I did not expect is that within the week she would email AND call me with praise beyond anything I had anticipated and asked if she could "sell" the book at this year's book club organization meeting. (Each May we meet for a potluck dinner. Each person in the group gets to try and convince us to read her two or three selections in 30 seconds or less, per book. Then we vote.) I was in a mild state of shock when she asked, but I agreed.

Within a few weeks of this, two things happened: my letter was published in TNY and Tamathy read a story re-telling I had written for Enrichment night. The letter was a little thing, a very little thrown together thing, but seeing my name in print was such a thrill. A few people actually sought me out on Facebook to make further comments about my letter. That was also weird, but kind of wonderful in its way. The very idea that I might write something that would move a complete stranger to seek me out to say, "Yes! Thank you for validating/describing my feelings." (No, you Blogger girls I've never met don't count the same way. You all feel like friends!)

But it was Tamathy's recitation of my Johnny Lingo re-telling that really gave me the publishing bug. I spent some time rewriting the Legend of Johnny Lingo for our ward's Eight Cow Enrichment night. I put it together in a fairly specific way because I was trying to bring out some salient points without making it beyond-awful-cheezy, but I told Tamathy (who is an excellent orator and actress) that if it was clumsy, awkward, bad, whatever, to make it her own. Well, Tamathy liked it. So much in fact that she narrated my story word for word. The sisters in the room were either bored into submission or transfixed by both Tamathy's excellent reading and by the story itself. I glanced around the room, with an awesome feeling inside at the emotions I saw playing across each face. MY WORDS had done that. Maybe, just maybe, I might have other words that could do the same.

Well, three weeks ago, every sister in the room voted for my book at the book sell. We are reading it in September. As there are only two printed and bound copies (the current "list price" is about $20, which barely covers printing and binding), I had to get it ready this month, so that it can be passed along to everyone who wants to read it. The first sister who picked it up from me (along with two other books) on Wednesday, cornered me at church today with the most excited expression on her face. "I'm dying to talk about it. Can I pass it on to others who aren't in our group? Sister W. and I were at the temple yesterday and I wanted to just tell her all about it." I nodded numbly, "Of course, pass it on; there is no reason not to."

There is no reason not to. Just that I had hoped to publish it. Just that I had hoped to sell it, even for a pittance. Just that it represents thousands of hours of writing I'll never be paid for. Just that it represents thousands of hours of my life that I'll never get back, though I'm not sure I'd want it back either.

This is where I'm unsure how to feel. The current edit is good, maybe very good, and when you have the whole thing in hand (not all chopped up in sections like on the blog), it reads like an exciting and touching novel. The characters are compelling and human. Everyone who has gotten hold of this current version says the same thing, "This was so great. I just couldn't put it down. I can hardly wait to talk about it." Am I happy about this? Oh, yes. So happy. If this story manages to touch lives in some way and uplifts and teaches and brings unity, well, how can I be anything but happy?

And yet, after my brief conversation with Sister S today, I walked back into the chapel to gather my kids' coloring books, crayons, and quiet books they had noisily spread all over the floor and felt tears prick in my eyes and lump in my throat. And they didn't feel like those happy tears you get when you feel warm and fuzzy inside. The emotion surprised me with its depth and sharpness. Did my quick, "Sure, pass it along!" mean that I was admitting that it will never be read in another form? I held my head back to take in a larger gulp of oxygen and clear the suddenly hazy eyes.

The feeling I had was exactly like when my drama coach looked at me with her large, tender, brown eyes after my third call back for my senior musical--Seven Brides for Seven brothers--and said with so much love, "If it had just been eight brides for eight brothers . . . . I tried and tried, but I've just been outvoted." Six years of drama, ballet, piano and even choir to be cast as one of the bride's mothers with a single line, "It sounds like Pansy has the croup." They gave me a part that effectively kept me out of all the dancing and the singing. Technically, I was higher up in the program because I had a "part," but I was isolated from nearly everyone in the entire cast because of that role. The boy with whom I was completely in love was cast as Gideon. (For you non-aficionadas out there--the "G" brother is #7.) He fell head over heels for bride #7 and, being the perfect best friend that I was to him, I was gifted to hear all about it. But I digress . . . .

Noveling. I spent a lot of years being almost good enough; the musical-thing was the icing on a very icky cake. Just when I thought I'd put so much of that behind me, I decided that what I really want to do with my life is to make up and retell stories and then send them out into the world so that I can know EXACTLY what people think of what I have to say.

Scary.

I'm not sure how this book group thing is going to go. I've already told the sister who "sold" it that I think she should lead the discussion: I'm happy to give background information and the occasional insight, but mostly I want to know how it is perceived by others. Or not.

Perfectly Polite Pirates

Here is a faithful transcript of a conversation overheard yesterday on the back patio at my house. My oldest, 7 1/2 will be referred to as #1; my middle child, 4 1/2, will be referred to as #2.

#1: Welcome to our ship, new pirate. What is your name?

#2: Um . . . . Argy Mate.

#1: Argy Mate?

Mom (from inside): Yeah! Like ARRGGHH-y Mate.

#1: Oh, right. Welcome, Argy Mate. We are delighted to have you as one of our new pirates. Tell us about yourself.

#2: (Rambled on at some length about a boating accident that killed nearly his entire crew.) Some of us found a life raft and we survived.

#1: What about your first mate?

#2: Dead.

#1: What about your second mate?

#2: Dead.

#1: What about the cookers?

#2: The cookers are dead too.

#1: That's terrible. (Gives #2 a hug.)

#2: Yeah, it's pretty terrible all right.

#1: Wait! What is that on the horizon!?! It's another small boat! It's your cookers! They survived!

#2: My. Cookers. Survived!?!

#1: Yes! Oh, I'm so happy for you!!! (More hugging.)

I don't think my little pirates are going to be considered the Terrors of the Seven Seas any time soon: they may not even be considered the Terrors of the Bathtub. But aren't their manners impeccable? I'm happy to report that at some point later in the afternoon there were actually some bad guys to best, and they acted like proper little wild boys then. Yelling, screaming, brandishing weapons, making a skull and crossbones flag, threats, etc.

Because the Tenth Anniversary is the Burrito Anniversary

The trip we took in April was supposed to cover some weeks of gift-giving family holidays: Valentine's Day, Plantboy's birthday in March, Mother's Day, my birthday in May, our anniversary last week and Father's Day. The idea, of course, being that we'd rather do one big cool thing than have a lot of lame-ish smaller presents.

This is such an awesome idea. In theory.

In practice it is a little bit dodgier. I did give everyone something (tiny) for Valentine's Day. As for Plantboy's birthday, well, there was just a shirt. And a CD. During Elder Scott's talk in conference ("I love you, but we can't afford it") Plantboy 'fessed up: Jerry Seinfeld was coming to town just a week after my birthday and he bought tickets nearly two months ahead to surprise me but now he felt guilty because they were expensive and on the credit card and should he try to sell them?

No. He should not. I also pointed out that now I felt guilty about them too instead of just pleasantly surprised. It's a good thing we had nearly two months to get over it, and to pay for them. (The Jerry was fantastic, by the way.)

Our vacation was, of course, wonderful but we did a very poor job of the just stick to one souvenir apiece plan. I hope by now you are starting to get a sense of how exceptionally well-disciplined Mr. Plantboy and I are. We could probably make it on one income if we could both stick to our guns and/or live like hermits.

We almost didn't do anything for my birthday or Mother's Day. Almost. Oh, yeah, the Seinfeld tickets. But they didn't really count, did they? After all, we bought them weeks in advance.
Our anniversary approached; we reminded one another daily that we were not doing anything (else) for it. Besides, the ward was doing a fathers and sons camp out that night. That was all the anniversary present I needed!

Then, Plantboy came home with the news that the Chipotle scheduled to open here in town was on time, and that opening day was our anniversary. Does this not seem like that big of a deal to you? Well, then, clearly, you are not married to Plantboy.

Plantboy lived in Denver when the first few of these restaurants opened in the mid-nineties. One of them was right down the street from the Denver temple where he worked during the summer. It would be pushing it to say they ate there every day, but probably twice a week.

Then he married me, and we spent our first summer in Denver. I was shocked that he'd been previously going out to lunch daily, and buying $5 burritos two or three times week. I insisted on him packing the lunch nearly every day, giving the kitchen pass to go out only once a week or every other week. Then he TOOK me to Chipotle.

I wasn't so harsh about him packing lunch after that. I cautioned moderation, of course; it can't be good for you to eat a 10,000 calorie burrito every day for lunch, but I didn't fault his taste any more. We love everything about Chipotle.

We love the cool design of each store.

We love their corrugated metal decor and Aztec art.

We love their catch slogans and ad campaigns. (All time favorite: Usually When You Roll Something This Good, It's Illegal.)

We love their fresh ingredients, and that you can stuff anything that will fit into a HUGE tortilla and still be charged just $6. (The price has gone up a bit from the old Denver days, and yes, we know that guacamole is extra.) We love the cilantro lime rice so much that we've tried to re-create it here at home for years.

But mostly, oh, mostly, we just love their food.

One of the hardest things to say goodbye to in Texas was the Chipotle they'd built just a year before we left. Did you know that branch gave you and a friend a free meal on your birthday? And firemen and cops were always free. The nearest Chipotle to where we lived in Utah was two hours. TWO HOURS! We love it, but two hours was really pushing it.

The nearest franchise to us until Friday was about a mile from the Portland temple. I suppose it is no secret where we ate each time we went. I have sometimes even wondered a bit about my darling spouse's motivation for attending the temple . . . .

But not anymore. This newest addition to the Chipotle family is just three minutes from Plantboy's office. Yes, I foresee that this could be a bad thing. But it was sure fun on Friday. We came just after they opened and got the free tee shirts being given to the first 100 in the door. We sat near the lady handing out the free stuff and also got a squeezie burrito stress toy, a couple of free meals, free lip guac (read: chapstick), a pen and a couple of coupons for free guac and chips next time we go. She told us that on Thursday, when they'd given out free burritos all day, they had given away over $14,000 in food. (We tried twice to wait, but the line was over 100 people long and it went around the building. In a town primarily populated by vagrants and college students, this should come as no surprise.)

My friend watched my little ones for a couple of hours while Plantboy and I did this silly and fun thing that made us really feel like part of the community. When Plantboy admitted to the promotional-girl that he'd written the company three times to suggest Eugene locations for the burrito-goodness, she saw that we were the true superfans and is going to send us a bunch more coupons and tee-shirts. We will officially be enrolled as Chipotle Ambassadors.

Really.

How am I doing so far?

Draft

First draft of an apology letter to newspaper customer at *** Oak Street.

Dear Mr. Grouchypants (I don't know? Is this too childish? What I really want to say might be too vulgar? Thoughts?),

I remember with fondness the first message I got from you. Being a new carrier, I didn't always think to put the paper, creased-side down in your box. Not having a paper box myself, I didn't realize that such misplacement could cause the paper to be slightly ruffled and probably unreadable. Thanks so much for calling to explain to my supervisor about what a rotten newspaper carrier I was. I have tried hard in the year and a half since to do all you asked. (I don't know, does this sound adequately unctuous? Or should I lay it on a little thicker?)

And you have been a taskmaster. 17 months of deliveries and not a single tip in all those months. Not even last December when I slogged through the snow up your slick driveway every morning for two weeks to make sure that your paper was snug in its box--crease side down--each morning by five o'clock. Thanks for showing me just how little I deserved your good will. (Is it in poor taste to bring up money? He does pay his bill on time, after all.)

Fast forward to mid-April. Your delivery was missed! Oh, the anger and frustration that such a slight must have caused! It is such a hassle to call the paper one single morning out of 400 to request one brought to your house. Of course, by seven or eight, the news that should have been delivered at six is nearly unreadable! I imagine this ruined your whole day. (Enough empathy? Too many exclamation points?) I must, however, point out, that at the time of this second offense I was actually out of town; the missed delivery was my sub's fault. Though, that is just making excuses. I should clearly have hired a better substitute and will not use that vermin again. (Although I have used him once since; is this little lie going too far?)

But May 14th. Oh the horror! Again, your box was skipped. No excuses this time--it was all my fault. Was it staying up to watch the LOST season finale the night before? Was it being all hopped up on birthday wishes from earlier in the week? There are no good answers or reasons for my grievous offense. (Too many excuses? Will he see through this as a flimsy attempt to finagle my way back into his good graces?)

But the final straw, and the one that caused you to call my supervisor, but not my current supervisor, my old supervisor who has been at the paper longer, the stinking witch who actually sunk so low as to hire me, was a missed paper again on Monday. You lit up the switchboard with your choice language and the message nearly burnt its way through the paper as it was left for my former supervisor. In the harshest reprimand possible, your rageful complaint was published on my bundle cap early this morning. The ultimate shame--you requested a credit for having to purchase a paper at the local DariMart. My heart aches for how low you had to sink to get your millimeters thick Monday paper, so chock full of news and advertising that it must have occupied nearly 20 minutes of your day yesterday. My only defense, weak though it may be, is that my regular route had a rather unsavory character walking along it yesterday and my selfish concern for my own safety caused me to change up my route. It is apparent that my distraction cost you a day's peace. Can you ever forgive me? (Too much bold? Does it get the point across or just seem a little bit melodramatic? I'm thinking that this guy really understands melodrama, however.)

Though the papers arrived an hour late today, I ran my tail off to make sure that yours, especially, was delivered in a timely manner. I apologize for not getting this apology note to you a day sooner. Here is a flower to show how genuinely sorry I feel for the burden I have placed upon you. (What kind of flower is best for apologies? Or what about a subtle attempt at humor, like forget-me-nots?) No doubt, you think that only an incompetent or vindictive person could do this twice in one month. I promise, sincerely, that I'm not out to get you. I suppose I can only be deemed incompetent. I can't tell you how many times in my life I've been told how stupid and irresponsible I am. You must be at least the second.

My supervisor and I discussed you at great length today; I promise, there was no laughter shared at your expense or at the demented quirks of old people in general. I told him that if you did actually call him back that he should tell you I was taken out to the back of the newspaper office and shot by a firing squad in the courtyard, while my young family looking on, sharing my ignominy for all time. After all, it is for them that I have taken this job that is so essential to the proper functioning of the (your?) universe.

Yours in sincerest apology, etc. etc. (With humility? Yours? Love?)

What do you think? Print it and attach it to his paper? Or do a little editing?

Let's Talk About Sex

Education that is.


This topic was brought up, rather inadvertently, in my book group the other night. The group is affiliated with RS Enrichment, so we mostly do a good job of sticking to the topics in the book. As when I'm with (most) any group of LDS women, I've learned to just bite my tongue when snide comments are made about the global warming "hoax", Barack Obama being a commu-muslo-terrorist and the latest blog news from Glenn Beck. As much as I hate it when people assume I agree with them about politics because we have the same religion, in person I'm much less confrontational than my writing suggests and I don't like the argument that political discourse often engenders. Discussion yes, but argument, no. Besides, in our group there is a woman who is Canadian, a former social worker, and was a rabid Hilary supporter. She isn't afraid to have a little go-time.


But back to the subject. I only said the other to give a little bit of background into our group and its dynamic. One of our younger sisters was very angry about some diversity posters that were going to be hung at her son's elementary school. Coming into the conversation a moment late, I thought that she was perhaps over-reacting, but then she was specific about the content of some of the posters. A couple of them were about transgender and homosexual individuals with blunt vocabulary. I think some kinds of information, particularly presented in such a sound-byte fashion, merely give children more tools for mocking one another. Also, since homosexual and transgender lifestyles are so wrapped up in sexual behavior and not just inherent identity (like race), the teaching of such should be handled the way sex education is at schools, not the way mulit-cultural education is.

My friend, incensed, wrote a letter to the school. A second mother in the group, who has some older children, also indicated that she has had trouble with the sex education programs at area schools. I kind of cornered mother #2 later and tried to get specifics about her issues with the programs, but she wasn't really able to say. Only that when given the choice, she opted her child out and was promised he'd have other work to do at his seat. He did not, and ended up doing most of the worksheets the rest of the class was doing. Again, no idea about the age of the child in question or the content that was so disturbing to her.

Before I hit you all with my barrage of questions, let me give you a bit of my own history. My first knowledge of sex came from two sources: I was staying with a friend for a few days when I was about 8 years old while my parents went on a trip. While bathing together one night, she told me how babies were made. I was shocked, horrified and disgusted. She told me that it was true and if I didn't believe her I should ask my mother. How could I say ANYTHING like that to my mom!? I'd be in so much trouble. Looking back, I can see that this experience has turned me into a mother that is pretty much anti-sleepover. Don't even get me started on why her mother put two eight year old girls in the tub at the same time.

The second source was a cousin, my age, who loved to entertain us with dirty jokes while all of the cousins stayed up late in the huge tent set up on Grandma's lawn every Labor Day. When I first heard his naughty potty mouth, and his awful jokes were pretty much confirming in their perverse way what bathtub-girl had said, there was no possible way for me to talk to my mother. It was too embarrassing and too gross. Years later I would learn that she was waiting for me to ask, just as my older brother had asked questions while she was pregnant with my youngest sibling.

Then mom forgot to come of the second of our two maturation films at school. She was the only absent mother in the entire sixth grade class. Okay, like I can really know that. But it sure seemed that way. This has been a running family joke for years, but at the time it probably really affected my willingness to approach my mom about girl stuff. I was embarrassed beyond belief when I had to tell her I had started my period, and for years I wanted to die whenever I had to ask her to buy pads. And tampons! Let's not even go there.

Fast forward to junior high health. Our sex education unit took a whopping 45 minutes. Our lame-o health teacher showed a movie about the miracle of childbirth while the boy behind me made snide comments the entire time. I tried desperately not to keep my head on my desk so that I could pass the quiz later. I willed myself to disappear, but not having any magical powers, it was no good. When the movie was done--10 seconds before the bell rang--our teacher said, "If you have an questions, go home and ask your parents."

I did not.

Being a nurse, conversations about sex and even sexuality should have been doable for my mom, but she just kept waiting. It's crazy, really, we talk about all kinds of things now and have a really positive and wonderful friendship. But I was the oldest girl and my mom's own family had been fairly dysfunctional; it seemed like everything I did was uncharted water. Well, about the time I turned 16 and was taking AP biology, Mom figured that she'd just missed the boat. After all, she reasoned, I was exceptionally bright--I'd certainly put two and two together. (Or, in this case, one and one; though my experience was all cerebral and the thought of even kissing a boy terrified me.) As for the chastity stuff, well, I was getting plenty of teaching in church; my dad did give me some kind of object lesson about a boiling frog. But you had to be dating anybody more than once, and they had to be marginally attracted to you, to get anywhere near boiling. Chastity was not a problem.

When I was a senior in high school, my youngest brother went to the maturation film for boys. My mother did not forget to attend with him. I took him on a long walk that night and told him all about the girls' movie. I told him that he wouldn't get this talk from mom but that he was mature enough and smart enough to understand some things, and that I didn't want him to be one of those idiot boys who teased girls about things they didn't understand. I think I knew that afternoon that he would eventually be a doctor.

On to college. I learned a lot, again all academic knowledge, about the mechanisms of sex and birth control and anatomy and physiology and vocabulary and . . . . well, you get the gist. Biology girl, remember? My older brother and his sweet fiance gave me a ride back to school one weekend and in a conversation that must have required him to swallow a lot of pride and mortified her, he asked ME about birth control options. I was 19. I was very blunt. I still wonder if her reticence towards me stems from that single conversation.

I was nearly legal age before I really kissed a boy. We won't go into the depths to which I was naive and stupid about what certain kinds of kissing can do to a man, or how cruel it is when a girl ignorantly starts the launch sequence. The early days of marriage were a long, slow learning curve; and yes, for all my book learning, I was pretty embarrassed about nearly every aspect of intimacy.

My own views of what the schools should or should not include in their sex education curriculum has no doubt been heavily influenced by things I've seen as a teacher. I was 23 and a single student teacher when a gorgeous Hispanic senior came to me and asked me about fifty questions about pregnancy; she was a few months along and I was the first adult that she'd told. I was 24 and teaching 7th grade when some foster parents told me the girl that had guardian-ship for was dealing with the aftermath of a sexually abusive stepfather and an abortion the previous summer. As for my eye-opening experiences at my inner-city school in Texas, well, let's just say that I'm a big advocate of giving people some kind of a license or test before they engage in sexual activity, let alone pro-create! ;)

Permanently damaged by my convoluted sex education? No, of course not. But I would like to do better for my own kidlets. And don't go saying "Get your spouse's support" because we'd been married about twenty minutes when Plantboy said, in no uncertain terms, "you are talking to the kids about sex; you're the science teacher." He has a point, from my painfully bashful beginnings, I never miss a beat when I say sperm or egg or sex or mating or reproducing or penis or vagina or whatever in front of a group of 13 year-olds. It's just science.

But with my own (and my oldest is just five months away from that magic age of accountability), it doesn't feel like science. It feels like how they will normalize themselves to the opposite sex, especially because they don't have sisters. It feels like their understanding of sacred principles. It feels like their future chance at an eternal marriage. The facts are the same, but what my little ones DO with these facts will literally make or break their lives and spirits.

My cornered friend from book group talked about how she opens up the conversation by talking about stranger touch, private parts, etc. The rest kind of evolves from there, over time, as you children are ready for it and ask questions. This is the approach advocated by the Cub Scout Manual. But I remember how poor I was at asking questions, even in an atmosphere of love and trust that my mom always inspired. And my boys are such boys--so mechanical and busy and practical--I don't know if they ever even think about babies, let alone where they come from. I also wonder if by jumping right to the molesting conversation, we rule out any possibility for such touch to be good and wonderful and necessary? Of course, all that affirmation stuff is not really appropriate or desirable for quite a number of years still . . .

What are your thoughts here? Things your parents did well? Things that have worked with your older kids? Didn't work? And most all, funny stories; sex is serious and sacred, but it isn't ALL bad. ;)

Channeling My Inner Sunnie

Some of you may occasionally check out other bloggers from my sidebar or their comments. One of my few bloggy friends who still lives in the ward we moved from in Texas is named Sunnie. She is as bright and cheerful as her name suggests, and I know that when I read one of her new blog posts I will feel uplifted, informed and resolved to spend more quality time with my kids. Her blog reflects her personality perfectly--it is full of pictures of going and doing with light, but meaningful commentary. She has one of those mommy-blogs that you love to read because it is just so unpretentious. For all the fun things she does and copious pictures she takes, she never posts about her adventures to make you feel like she has it all figured out and her kids are perfect.

I unloaded pics from my camera yesterday and realized there are about 100 of them from the last six weeks or so. They aren't super exciting, but they are a reflection of what we've spent our time doing this spring. Several of them are plant pictures that more adorable hubby took. Plantboy likes to print these pictures and mount them on blank cards to give away. The result is absolutely lovely, though he has been known to say things like, "do you know any other straight men who would do this?" while he is picking colors and cropping shots for sticking to his cards.

So in a Sunnie-style Mormom mamma blog, here are pictures from this spring with minimalistic commentary. Be warned, there are a lot. I just had strawberries and cream for lunch and I'm feeling a bit indulgent.

These are from the jog-a-thon at Jedi Master's school. He did 22 laps! In any other class this would have put him in first place. In HIS class, he came in just behind super-girl with like 26 or something crazy like that.

These next several are of the garden--some in the back and some in the front. We mostly have vegetables in the back because we have one very sunny corner. This first is the drip system lovingly weaving in and out of the carrots (?).

Oh, yeah, the Youngling is a huge help. Though he spends most of his time getting underfoot, he really loves nothing more than to be outside with dad. Mom is very encouraging of such behavior.

This is nearly a month ago; the strawberries are twice this tall now and we'll probably be ready to pick our first big "crop" in about a week. The raspberries aren't quite so close.

Um . . . should have rotated this one before loading, but it was too pretty to skip, so just turn your head sideways. This plant is in the lupine family, which is the same as the Texas Bluebonnet. The leaf is nearly identical and the flowers are also similar. This thing, however is about three feet tall. I guess everything is NOT bigger in Texas.

This is a delphinium. I inadvertently discovered that these make excellent cut flowers. Padawan and the Youngling waged a vicious light-saber fight against some imaginary foe, but the delphinium was the collateral damage and had to be put in water. It lasted nearly a week before it began shedding petals or drooping.

Random ground cover, but I just love the blueness. Plantboy says that true blue flowers are actually quite rare. Most flowers called "blue" look more purple.

My Colorado Plantboy loves columbine. Here are three of several varieties found in our back yard.

This one is called bleeding heart. I've always loved this perennial and my mom has grown both the white and the pink types for years and years. Very aptly named.

Here is the garden a week or two after the previous shots--carrots, strawberries, raspberries, herbs, onions, peas, lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, corn, potatoes and beets. The squashes and cukes will be planted in just a few weeks. We're eatin' good this summer!

The Youngling's second birthday was on Sunday. What a cheeseball. He has gotten to that I-think-I'm-posing-for-pictures phase and he seldom smiles naturally for the camera anymore unless it is an accident. His shirt is a size 12 months, I think. It is also a onesie. Plantboy snapped it up before church and it was like a diaper-thong. Here he is with puzzles from Grandma P.

In a stroke of genius, Mom gave him a blender, since he wants the real blender out all the time. In less than two days, this thing has, literally, entertained the child for hours. He loves to put the plastic spoon (included with the set) in the blender, set the thing to high and then watch it blow its top. I'm quite certain we are exceeding the appropriate use clause here. I'm starting to hope it runs out of batteries very soon.

Here is mom cutting the red velvet cake. This is my all-time favorite cake. (ONLY homemade, the box stuff is like eating brownish-pink dried Styrofoam.) Until the Padawan can tell me otherwise, this is going to be his birthday tradition. Mom made this cake for me every year when I was growing up, but I can't bring myself to make it for my own birthday. This way, I just have to wait about a week and a half after my own day to make it. I'd like to find a bottle of blue food coloring and do blue velvet, but the store I went to didn't carry it.

Yesterday we went to a local park/demonstration garden that is mostly planted with native rhododendrons. May is the month for these and this tiny park was one of the most beautiful places I've been to in a city full of lovely things. When you come to visit next May, I promise to take you. Rhodies are in the same family as the Texas azaleas, but they are evergreen, so they have leaves and blossoms at the same time. The varieties in this park were also tree types so they were huge.

This is a picture of the three dwarfs: Itchy, Grumpy and Sloppy. I'm sure these same folks visit your house from time to time. Baby is wearing his new birthday clothes from Grandma L. Thanks!

I told Plantboy that this was the look I was going for in our back yard.