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.