A Musing Mother

Details

2013-06-17T22:32:00.001-06:00

Scott said that the photos did not do justice to my works of art. I thought I should do a little better job at showcasing. I BUILT that crate. It's one of my favorite pieces.

That stupid dog took my son's shoe which he had discarded to in favor of jumping on the trampoline. It took me 20 minutes and a slab or roast beef to get it back. It was covered in slobber. I don't like that dog.

And the other half of our Pinterest Activities

2013-06-17T17:15:00.003-06:00

So I said Samantha and I were working on our Pinterest stuff. While I was downstairs cutting wood and using the nail gun, she was upstairs painting the drywall in the garage. We feel very proud of our creativity and handiness with power tools.

The power tool comment was all about me.

Here is my culmination which includes the stuff I mentioned in my last post and a crate I made to put crap on. So cool.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Samantha was mixing together chalkboard paint (paint and grout) and painting a wall in the garage. Then painting over a "whoopsie!" I think it looks fantastic, by the way. I can't even begin to tell you how tickled I am with the finished product. So tickled, I had to share.

Please. Tell me how amazing we are. Go ahead.

How Pinterest and I Get Along

2013-06-17T03:21:00.000-06:00

I don't mean to brag but I pretty much rock.

You know all those cool little DIY crafty projects on Pinterest? Well, I finally lost myself on Pinterest and just emerged with some pretty great crap.

Not only that, but I am providing you with step-by-step instructions, Nancy- Style. Prepare yourself and follow the instructions EXACTLY. Or you'll mess it up.

First, the photos:

Roxie is the neighbor's dog. If I don't "remember Roxie," she will spend all day in her doggie cage in the garage without food and water. That might be a bad thing.

The 13 year old is going to scout camp. He's supposed to be taking care of Roxie.

And my last creation:

Total cost for all of these decorations (which are going to my work office) = $0. Don't worry. I'll let you in on the how to do all this great stuff. Step by Nancy-Step.

So the decorating style I'm going for at work is old fashioned and barnyard. Surprisingly, I don't have a single chicken or any rendering of our feathered friends. I suddenly got this hankering to make a chalkboard for my office and I was going for the last photo: You never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.

I wanted it on chalkboard paper. I hunted all through Pinterest and couldn't find it but I found ALL kinds of chalkboard ideas. Including a scrapbooking type page which I imported into Paint and added some new, fun fonts and, without having a clue what I was doing, I made this:

A good *TADA* would be good right about now.

And I sent it to the UPS store to be printed.

Meanwhile, my inner 8 year old boy kicked in and I was going, "That looks fun! OOoh! So does that! I really ought to do THAT one, too..." and suddenly I had a few projects going on. Which leads me to my little Father's Day present for Scott:

Which is just black and white photos on thinner photo paper, cut up and modge podged onto canvas then covered in wood stain and modge podged again. I didn't really like how it turned out so I did another one and painted the white part black. So he has two to choose from. So I guess the copies did cost me $.54.

Sorry about that lie.

So I found that you can make a chalkboard without all that fancy schmancy paint. All you need is a tablespoon of tile grout to one cup of any kind of paint. Like I'm going to measure paint and grout any more than I measure flour, yeast, sugar and water when I make bread. I do measure the salt. I don't know why. But we have grout. We have paint. And we have wood. And this is where the instructions come in. Pay attention. This is important.

Starting with the wood:

Be a dumpster diver.

This is oh-so-very important when your creativity is screaming "good intentions." Rarely does my creativity actually get out but I always want to be prepared! Which leads me to neighborhoods where homes are under construction. That's right. That beadboard was found. . . in a dumpster. All that wood and finish carpentry MDF - in a dumpster.

Just to be clear, there is a right way to do dumpster diving. I'm not really sure what that right way is but I'll tell you how I do it. With good planning. I generally choose to go on Sundays when nobody is working on construction. Ideally, you want to avoid evenings as people in neighborhoods like to walk around, talk to neighbors, and get to know strangers who might be thigh high in a dumpster. You go when there is a high probability that the entire neighborhood is at church. Best time is right after your own church. Best clothing for this activity would definitely be your high heeled sandals and maxi skirt. Find a house that might be doing finish carpentry and stop by dumpster. Climb up, look in. If it hasn't been recently dumped, dive in. Avoid nails but as a precaution, make sure your tetanus shot is current. Best pieces are usually 13 layers down, wedged so that you have to stand on them in order to pull them out which only adds to the excitement as you snag your maxi dress, trip on your high heels, and land on your bottomotomous while praying the nails are facing downward when you land.

In that regard, sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose.

In the good news department, I do not wear pantyhose, therefore, I have never gotten a run in my hose from dumpster diving. So there's always that.

Back home where you are suddenly possessed by the must-make-chalkboard demon, you already have the wood, the paint and, thanks to your husband's thoughtful Mother's Day present, a miter saw. Yes, I really did ask for a miter saw for Mother's Day. I can't begin to tell you how much fun I had with it. Also, I used my husband's nail gun which I am conscientiously wary of using. The large, square-ish frame I made for the huge and heavy chalkboard is made out of some kind of hardwood. I used the big nail gun with the long nails and discovered that the laws of physics changed. When I shot the nail straight through to attach to the other piece of wood, it hit that other piece of wood, bent, and emerged from the wood which is usually a bad thing. Particularly when it comes out next to your thumb. It did hurt. I did yank my hand back. I did see that the skin was broken and feared a puncture wound. I squeezed for about five minutes, trying to get blood from the wound before I realized it only went through the first layer of skin.

"Scott!" I yelled, "No segue here, but when did I get my last tetanus shot?" I admit I was only slightly insulted when he asked if he needed to drive me to the emergency room. Always assuming the worst.

So all that super cool stuff from one Sunday afternoon (not including the many Sundays in the dumpsters) and I didn't even include one gorgeous frame I made from 6" pine floorboards that I will staining and hanging on the garage wall after I paint a rectangle of chalkboard black and grout for messages within the Taylor tribe.

More pictures coming when the crafty demon emerges from dormancy in another year or two. I'm so excited!

Just So You Know, It was Really, Really Hard

2013-06-10T18:54:00.001-06:00

I survived another year of junior high.

Let's recap my years of junior high, shall we? Yes, we shall.

The first time was in the late 70's. I was awkward, gangly, and uncertain of myself. I began in adolescence. It took three years to finish this chapter of junior high but I made it. My reward? High school.

My second stint in junior high was in my twenties. I was not yet completely exposed to the politics of junior high faculty and was greatly traumatized for years afterward. Reader's Digest version is simply that a certain teacher was going to the brand new University of Phoenix, Utah based. She was going to be a counselor. She was crazy and she wanted my job. She terrorized me the entire year. By April, she resorted to a thinly veiled threat of knowing who to call to find out the price of a regular hit man, quoting the price to me ($50,000, according to her), and flippantly remarking that she had the money. Even though I only worked with her one year, I kept track of her for the next 20.

Now I'm back in junior high. My third time. It's been a living, breathing hell. My colleagues hate me. My administrator reacts whenever their hatred gets all riled up and complicates matters. I then spend an inordinate amount of time justifying myself and explaining myself and the overall joy of school counseling is draining from my soul.

The crux of the matter is that there is a deep-seeded resentment, particularly by one of my colleagues, that I work part time when they do not. Not that they can not, they can. They will not because of the deep cut in their pay were they to do so. Rather than honor my part time contract, they have accused me of not carrying my weight, tell on me whenever they believe I am not following the rules, go to one of their offices, close the door, backbite, get worked up, and then, as a united threesome, take their grievances to the administrator in charge of us.

Here's the thing. They are wrong. But they don't see that they are wrong. When I explain that my part time contract means I do half what they do, I am verbally pummeled and told to step up and stop trying to weasel out of my duties. Then they run to the administrator who hears the squeakiest wheel and acts on it. This last time, she made some decisions that were ethically questionable and legally wrong.

I have a friend and former colleague who has a daughter with a severe case of spina bifida. She chose a family doctor during her pregnancy and was incredibly impressed with her devotion and knowledge of spina bifida. It's not that she knew more about the malady before her daughter was born but she was devoted enough to her patients that she educated herself and listened to Sandy when she talked. She gave Sandy her home phone number and ordered to call her at any time if she needed her. She's met her at Primary Children's Hospital even when she doesn't have physician rights. She chose to keep her practice at part time. She took a lot of flak from her colleagues about it. There were political wars but she would not budge. Her first priority was and is her children. When the politics got too hot, she quit the practice she was in and is currently taking a break.

So here is my rant on behalf of all women who have chosen to work part time, particularly those in the professional fields. What we have chosen to do is to accept half of the salary our full time colleagues enjoy but we do not, I repeat, DO NOT work half the time. We work far, far more than that. Although I have enjoyed colleagues that have respected my choice in the past few years, this is not always the case. Like this year. When colleagues are passive/aggressive and schedule us during our personal and family time, overload us with work they ought to be doing themselves, or wasting our precious time by creating situations where we have to "problem solve" with them, they are being incredibly disrespectful.

What they don't see and will not acknowledge are some sacrifices they are not willing to make. If they were willing to do so, they'd already do it. Here they are:

Half salary. Hear that? HALF. I am earning HALF of what they are earning.
Less money per hour. I acknowledge that half contract really means three quarters. They acknowledge three quarters and regularly schedule me for that extra time.
Less credibility and status/respectability.
The loss of opportunity for affordable group health insurance.
Professional stall. There are far less opportunities for career advancement for the woman who is openly, by choosing a part time position, putting her family before work. Everybody else is doing it with a full time salary; taking off early to take a child to the doctor's office, sneaking away for a school activity and never letting their supervisor know. We part - timers take all kinds of crap for that kind of thing AND a pay cut.
Half salary. It's worth repeating.

Just so you know, I did take the most recent debacle over my supervisor's head. In all honesty, I should have done it months ago. My first clue should have been their reaction to my statement, "My husband is having is having brain surgery and I will not be able to work all day, teaching in the classroom as you have scheduled me to do so. You do know I work part-time, don't you?" Just so you know, husband having brain surgery is not a free pass. Getting those three days off work was met with open rage and hostility by them.

So as I sat, wasting another day of work, in my supervisor's office, processing it all over again, I asked her to please publicly establish, support and publish my schedule so there is NO confusion. She just wanted to avoid that. Phhhhhffff. She later did send an email that established my regular schedule. By the way, the most recent debacle included my own confusion over my schedule which was a call to arms by my team. Again, I was not really confused, they were unable to communicate with me that they wanted me to be at work more than I am paid to be. THAT is where Fair Labor Laws come in. But I didn't have to invoke that threat. Nooooo. My unpredictability (which is in response to their scheduling me) was the source of my supervisor's upcoming rant. In beautiful, unchoreographed manner, one of my colleagues stood up, mid-meeting, five hours before the end of the work day, and announced she had a previous engagement. She left. I almost laughed out loud, clapping my hands in glee. But I did not.

And my supervisor informed me that this year has been the most peaceful year in the counseling office since she's been at the school. I dropped my head into my hands and wailed. Seriously? This is the norm? How is this acceptable behavior?

And that, my dear friend, is junior high. The grown-up style.

I'm going to go bury my head in my pillow and say naughty words.

Mixes of Noise

2013-06-01T14:23:00.001-06:00

The quieter I am on my blog, the louder my life is in reality. And it has been LOUD! Some of it has been bad loud. Most of it has been good loud. Three days ago, my oldest daughter crossed over to adulthood. In a sense.

Let's get it over right now. The quality of the image is exceptional, obviously. This is due to the operator of the very expensive DSLR. Unfortunately, the wrong person was in custody of the nice camera. Fortunately, the real photographer had her grandmother's $150 point and shoot camera and took exceptional pictures. Which I don't have, yet. But I will.

We've had concerts, dance festivals, Lagoon (think Six Flags then adjust your expectations by about 85%), yearbooks, and award ceremonies. My perfectly fabulous 18 year old is not always so fabulous, bless her heart. I'm feeling a lot of empathy for my mother right now. She's occasionally moody and rude to her mother. Fortunately, her father is a social worker and reminds me that this is all part of her individuation from her parents. However, I made her go to an awards ceremony where she was acknowledged for being a Utah Scholar and for receiving scholarships to at least four colleges/universities.

I know. I have very little room to complain. Which I rarely do. It's a normal stage of adolescent development.

I say that ten times every day when she runs off to play Ultimate Frisbee and comes home with new aches, scrapes, bruises, dirty knees, clothes and a big smile on her face.

She made the marching band at BYU.

I had my 8 year old tested for a learning disability on his teacher's recommendation. He was tested and everything looks great except for timed testing which is consistent with his two sisters at this age. The overall message was a kind, "Step it up, Mom." Yeah. I know. He's just so cuddly and it's hard to be a mom. So hard that at the end of the I.E.P., I looked at the clock, saw school had 45 minutes left, asked his teacher what they are doing in class right now (watching a movie) and I checked him out so I wouldn't have to drive clear back to the school to pick him up. All of a half mile.

In other news, he's left his Oedipus stage behind in childhood. I am now the second favorite parent. He loves his dad the best, now. He wants his dad to take him to the bathroom in public places. He wants his dad to play with him. He wants his dad to get things for him after we've sat down for dinner. I just smile at my food and keep eating. No eye contact.

My kids' skins are getting browned by the sun. Their hair is taking on a tawny tone. Their cheeks have a rosy tint. I planted my garden yesterday. I forgot to tell Scott and he tilled it this morning. Mama Hen is egg bound. She has an egg stuck in her. I made attempts to help her get it out after a call to a neighbor with chickens. I'm not proud of the things I did to that poor chicken and I don't want to talk about it.

Egg production is down and my garden is one of mixed vegetables and my legs are still white but I'm wearing shorts when I'm not at work and singing to the radio at the top of my lungs which is a sure sign that Spring has sprung. It's not pleasant to be in the car with me.

Work is so, so bad. It's not the job. It's not the patrons. It's the politics. They are so very ugly. I think it is also a fair assessment to say that the professionals that work at any given school mirror their population. I work at a junior high. 'Nuff said.

But school is out and I have one conference in a week, a few days of fixing schedules and I'm off to lazy summer days without a garden and two chickens. I expect Mama Hen to not quite make it. I take her out of the coop every day and put her down to eat and drink. She does then returns to the coop. She's an invalid but I'm unwilling to do anything else.

When Scott tilled my garden this morning, he actually provided a good analogy of my life. Mixed vegetables. Given, I didn't plant anything I don't like but my squash might grow right over a pea or bean plant which will inhibit its growth. On the other hand, it might be that the squash will relocate at a better place and grow better.

It's noisy but welcome. Someday I will miss the noise. But today I'm trying to type a blog post between asking the kids to not fight.

Welcome to summer.

Spot On Advice

2013-05-17T22:33:00.001-06:00

SALT LAKE CITY — I have been asked to re-post some advice I gave to graduates several years ago. Apparently in the three years since that article came out on KSL.com I have been deemed old and wise – I am just guessing at the order. Thanks for remembering, and here it is: Good things to know when handed a diploma Commencements are fresh in the air like lilacs in the garden or aerosol spray cologne in a high school boys locker room. High school convocations statewide are spewing forth youngsters who are ready to start taking on the world and stop taking out the garbage. I see all these young-lings after school — looking tall, impossibly thin, and a little naive — and I wish to offer them some heartfelt advice. I do this out of concern because I don’t want The Hope of the World to take as long as I did to come up with a few of life’s basics. Keep your teeth clean. You will want them later. Tanning is nice in moderation. However, burn yourself now and your skin will look like a pita pocket in 20 short years. Consider getting all the education you can. Remember getting good grades and getting an education are not always synonymous. When adults make a suggestion, it may be because they were once wearing your same Adidas. Shoe styles change, but feelings and the experiences are often the same. Old people get it; they just don’t care about it. White socks with their dress pants? We know it looks silly … yet we don’t care. Everyone is beautiful when young. I was stunning. My high school photo becomes more stunning the older I get. Sag your pants now and over the summer if you must, and remember the older you get the less people want to see your underwear. This is unless you become a professional pants sagger: like a rapper or an underwear model. Please don’t become a rapper or an underwear model. Good is better than evil because it is nicer. Wearing what everyone else wears, saying what everyone else says and thinking like everyone else thinks is not all it’s cracked up to be. Dare to be rare. But don’t dare so hard that you forget who you are for all the “being different.” Grow your hair long while you can. In five years you won’t want to, and in 10 you won’t be able to. In 20, you will not remember where you put it. Go with your gut — unless your gut says to drink and drive or use drugs. Then tell your gut to keep a lid on it. Feed the dog and do your chores. This is less advice and more of a request, really. Start the day with something you don’t want to do but has to be done. This is maturity in action. Find something you believe in and then believe in it with all your heart. Not believing in anything takes a lot of energy of which you will have less and less. Acting is better than reacting, unless you are choosing a career in the arts, and then react your way to a degree in computer science or anything un-artsy. Parents always deserve respect, even when we turn off your music and put on the Steve Miller Band or Captain and Tennille. While we are speaking of parents, know we want you to have fun, but not too much fun. We want you to look hot, but not too hot. We love you and want you to do well and are a little afraid you will get hurt unless we are there to buffer or give advice, or you won’t be part of our lives when you are gone. We will refrain from saying we told you so even though we did tell you so because you will not remember we actually told you so until you are at least 35. Then you will write a book of pithy sayings for teens, and buy us a Winnebago – at which point we will be even. You are welcome back anytime you need a break or to do your laundry. We will miss not having to look for the remote and the car keys, as well as the sound of the microwave. Have a wonderful life. And please, don’t stick around just to please us. We will be in the Winnebago. - Davison Cheney

Happy Mother's Day

2013-05-12T00:35:00.001-06:00

Updating in a Round About Way

2013-05-10T10:34:00.002-06:00

Writing about my musings the past couple of weeks takes too much out of me. The thoughts are still clawing to be expressed so I found a segue via my book blog when I reviewed the following book. I posted it on my book blog but I'm including it here, too. Just wanted to keep you somewhat in the status of what's happened since my last post.

One Drop at a Time by M. Russell Ballard

Book Description: Do you sometimes wonder if your little efforts could possibly make any difference at all? Consider a simple example from nature.

Honey is “one of the foods that includes all the substances— enzymes, vitamins, minerals, and water—necessary to sustain life,” writes Elder M. Russell Ballard. And yet, “Over its short lifetime of just a few weeks to four months, a single honeybee’s contribution of honey to its hive is a mere one-twelfth of one teaspoon. Though seemingly insignificant when compared to the total, each bee’s one-twelfth of a teaspoon of honey is vital to the life of the hive.”

Your simple, daily acts of service matter, and this charmingly illustrated little book will lift your heart as it demonstrates the power of many righteous people working together to fill the world, one drop at a time, with the sweet truths of the gospel.

My thoughts: This book is an adaptation of M. Russell Ballard's talk given in the L.D.S. General Conference talk entitled, "Be Anxiously Engaged." There are a few differences in word but the overall message remains the same: Our service matters.

Using the analogy of the honey bee, he uses his words to paint a picture of a colony of bees. Over the short lifetime of a honey bee, one of insect produces 1/12 of a teaspoon of honey. It seems so insignificant on its own yet, each bee depends on one another and work in tandem to make a hive productive and workable. This concept has been building on my mind all week, even before I read this book and was reminded of this talk.

A friend of mine is suffering an unimaginable tragedy. He and his wife are bereft and completely heartbroken. I felt presumptuous talking to them two nights ago. Although he is a dear and old friend, his wife and I are mere acquaintances. Yet in the weeks following the tragedy, I have felt a growing urgency to see her. What could I offer that others hadn't given her? Or maybe it was him. Still, I felt like it was not my place to offer condolences or words of possible comfort as I pulled up in the driveway and sat in the living room with my friend.

My inferiority and doubts of even showing up solidified when his wife walked in the room and my wonderful, shiny degrees that I hung on my walls that proved that I was a trained counselor, fell tarnished as I followed my gut. I walked up to her, wrapped my arms around her and we sobbed. And sobbed. And then we cried and talked for the next two hours. Leaning heavily on the crying part.

It isn't as if they are not surrounded by friends and family so I wondered what I had to offer that was unique. Maybe nothing. Probably my visit will disappear in the blur of the aftermath they both want to forget. But I was at least one of the twelve who were willing and able to give what I have. I am convinced that anything I said was not life altering. I believe I provided a little comfort for a short time. Somebody else could have done what I did which was show up, listen, and cry with them. My contribution is not outstanding but I showed up.

During the visit, her brother materialized. She had requested a blessing and I was honored that my friend asked me to stay. In the short, chaotic moments after her blessing, my friend turned to me and told me that he had a challenge for me. Write another verse to the popular poem, "Footprints in the Sand" that addressed the idea of looking back and seeing the hundreds of footprints in the sand of the people we meet along the journey that buoy us up, sometimes carry us, encourage us, and pray for us. The collective and proverbial village is holding the family up.

My contribution may only be 1/12 of a teaspoon. But it is a privilege to look back on the sand and know my footprints are mixed with great men and women who served these good people by offering all they have and those whose offering was to simply show up. Our footprints bisect and intersect one another. The sand is stained with the tears we shed with one another over a particularly heavy indentation as we leaned upon one another and lightened our loads by sharing the burden even for a few moments. Yet eventually we will notice the strong, steady prints that never deviate from our path. They are on a higher plane and often only seen after leaning on the many, touching them and being touched by them. No single man or woman can carry our burdens for long but One has been carrying our burdens all along.

Lots of Yelling and Writing in Caps

2013-04-23T20:48:00.000-06:00

I like mundane. I like it a lot but I'm never quite certain when I've reached mundane until some event pushes me off kilter and I long for mundane. I wonder how I had reached mundane when I was just in a difficult situation. You know, I'm busy. I'm really still struggling to understand my place at my work even though I can now answer people when they ask, "I'm settling in." I'm struggling with the role of motherhood as one daughter is struggling between spreading her wings and flying off to college and clinging to childhood. Another child is preparing for high school and is uncertain which one to go to and I worry about her a lot. One child is a completely different beast being an adolescent boy who won't talk to us about anything of import but will, at the most random moments, comment that he thinks he may have lost his other nipple. No, wait. There it is. Then my last child just turned 8 and we're preparing for his baptism.

Is my life not full? Let's also remember that my husband had brain surgery barely six months ago. I'm busy with carpools, orthodontist appointments, surgery for one child, surgery for another, working and I'm busy. Did I mention I'm busy? To be honest, I wave my banner of daily struggles high above my head in an effort to catch God's attention. THAT'S OKAY, GOD! THANKS FOR THINKING OF ME BUT I DON'T NEED ANY MORE GROWING EXPERIENCES! I'M GOOD! SEE ME RUNNING AROUND? SEE HOW MUCH I ALREADY STRUGGLE WITH WHAT'S ON MY PLATE? I'M GROWING! SEE? THANKS, ANYWAY!

But, see, that's not really how it works. I don't really know how it works so don't be looking at me for answers. What I do know is that we are busily trying to cocoon ourselves into a false sense of safety while we are running around, keeping up with life and the people that keep us going in life. But then something punches a huge hole in that illusion and what is really important becomes much more clear. I don't mind carpool. I have a job and I'm starting to like it. I enjoy digging up worms with my chickens. My dog still might kill them but it's not a tragedy.

Speaking of tragedies, I try to keep them at a comfortable arm's length. Through my work I hear about the tragedies happening around the district. The most recent was a suicide a little over a week ago. The cocooning begins. We try to find the culprit, blame it, and avoid whatever the cause was. We try to differentiate that family from our own in order to build the false belief that we're safe. It's a nice little reality if not skewed.

So Saturday night I got onto Facebook, which I do regularly once or twice a month. I don't even remember my purpose because I usually have one. There was an invitation to join a memorial page for the son of a very good friend of 25 years. He was the suicide last week. The pictures of him were haunting. Beautiful boy, happy, well liked, religious, spiritual, popular, the image in everybody's family picture. I know his parents. I knew them years ago and I know them now. There is nothing to differentiate them from me. There is nothing about this boy that differentiates him from any other, including my own. Drugs? Alcohol? Broken home? Nada. He gave no indications of the torment he held inside.

There are no answers and that bothers me immensely.

Now I feel vulnerable and frightened. I rushed to send a message to Mike, offering condolences and another message to a friend from high school who lives in the neighborhood. She said, "Feels like a big, ragged hole has been punched in our neighborhood." Apparently, the big, ragged hole extends further than their neighborhood.

This post is not about suicide. I'm not going to rant about society or culture, or anything else. I have nowhere to place blame. I am so, so sad. I cry a lot. I cried all day Sunday at church but I didn't want to tell anybody what was plaguing me. It isn't about me and I didn't want their sympathy to be wasted on me. I want answers so I can cocoon my family once again into safety. I feel exposed and uncertain. I'm afraid for my children. It's not just suicide but tragedy. I'm terrified of it randomly catching us.

That is the reason I wave my banner so furiously at God. I remind Him what I've been through. I remind Him that I'm still bitter about it SO DON'T BE GETTING ANY IDEAS THAT I CAN HANDLE MORE! Because I've heard that trite saying that God doesn't give you more than you can stand. I'm living proof that He does. I couldn't stand so I knelt. I lived but I don't want another growing experience. It was too hard.

I stand by that last paragraph but I also made a decision early Sunday morning as all the distractions in my life fell away and I was left staring at the Really Important Parts of My Life. That's the title of my new epiphany, hence, I capitalized it. It's time for me to let go. It's time for me to put down my banner and recommit myself to the Really Important Parts of My Life. It's time to stop finding excuses to not stay for all three hours of church (even though 3 hours is A REALLY, REALLY LONG TIME! Oops. I picked up my banner, again), praying earnestly, studying my scriptures, and listening for the Spirit to teach me. It's time for me to let my own past stop dictating what I know to be a better path. I even had a fleeting thought that I'd probably accept a job at church in order to serve Him better and learn more. It's time to focus my time and energy on serving my family, my Heavenly Father, and my church.

It was a fleeting thought and I didn't say it out loud, although it is consistent with the epiphany that I want to be stronger spiritually so I can be a better mother, wife, daughter, sister, and friend. Because I have discovered that I CAN do hard things even though I don't want to. But I really struggle with the easy things like daily scripture study, personal and focused prayer, flossing my teeth or picking up my dirty socks.

So Sunday, after Scott sent me home from church, validating my grief yet gently reminding me that I also had a touch of PMS which makes tragedies ten times worse (and how does that man have a better internal clock than I do? By the way, he was right.), sleeping for two and half hours then fighting to open my puffy eyes and having every member of my family make some comment about the state of the skin surrounding my eyes, I got a call from the executive secretary. The bishop wants my husband and I to meet him next week. I went ahead and asked the question, "Why?" Jeremiah, at the other end of the telephone mentioned an "opportunity" for one us. "Which one?" I'm pretty ornery right after a heavy nap following a huge cry. Jeremiah chuckled. Seriously. Who does that? The opportunity is for me. I told him no. Whatever it is, the answer is no. He didn't say anything and the experience I'd had the previous night came back to me. Who am I going to be? How committed am I to becoming the person I might become? "Okay. I'll see you on Sunday." I hung up.

I didn't tell Scott about it for two days. How dedicated was I? How dedicated am I? I'm scared. When someone from the church calls about a church calling, the spouse is asked to come when they are either included or that calling is so time intensive that the spouse needs to be included in the decision to accept. Of course, there is the third option. The bishop knows how I am and he knows how Scott is and he believes that he will get a better response with Scott at my side.

I told Scott then explained to him all of the reasons that ANY kind of calling of responsibility would be a REALLY, REALLY BAD IDEA! I'M NOT A GOOD ROLE MODEL! I SWEAR! I SNEAK OUT OF CHURCH SO I CAN START DINNER AND EAT ICE CREAM. ALONE. Somewhere in the middle of my own arguments I lost my train of thought and trailed off, finally ending angrily with AND I DON'T HAVE TO EXPLAIN ANYTHING TO YOU SO. . . STOP LOOKING AT ME!" As if he'd asked.

But I am looking for answers and found myself reading the Sermon on the Mount. Of course, I am trying to understand the tragedy of my friends. I read in John:5 -

3. Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

4. Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.

5. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.

6. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.

15.Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house.

Why is verse 15 in there? I like my candle right where it is. I stand on that bushel while I wave my banner. Yet for reasons I don't know, I need to know more. It's time to stop living in fear and start living on faith. I don't want to be a pillar of a righteous role model. I just want to be me. But a big part of me has been hiding under that bushel, darn it all. Yet the events of this week have proved I'm not safe there. Nobody is. I'm scared to death of what might happen. Yet my mind wanders back to the following scripture:

“For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind” (2 Timothy 1:7).

I could use some power, some love, and I could definitely use a sound mind. It would take a miracle, but I could definitely use a sound mind. And maybe this could be my new mundane.

Banned from Dinner

2013-04-11T08:00:00.000-06:00

Prom is coming and my oldest daughter was asked a couple of days ago.

"This is the second date with this boy, isn't it? Make sure he doesn't try to kiss you," I advised. She blushed. "You know, Dad didn't kiss me for two years after we started dating." It was a lie and everybody knew it. They would have been wise to not push it.

"Whaddya mean?" my 13 year old son challenged. "You got married within a year of your first date!"

"Well," I amended, "he didn't kiss me on our honeymoon. We just had sex." I popped my next bite of dinner into my mouth. I heard a clatter of silverware. Four forks had been dropped on their plates. I little girl scream erupted from my 13 year old son's mouth and he ran out to the garage. My nearly 18 year old daughter blushed bright red. My 15 year old daughter put her face in her hands and muttered, "Why, Mom."

"Seriously? Do you not know where you came from?" I demanded. "What kind of mother would I be if I didn't educate you on the birds and the bees?"

I heard, "Uh, normal?"

I've been banned from eating dinner with the family. Prudes.

Why We Stayed

2013-04-05T17:18:00.003-06:00

Eleven years ago Scott and I were on the verge of divorce. Our differences seemed irreconcilable and insurmountable. I could go into the details but they are unimportant. I loved him but I didn't particularly like him. He wasn't terribly crazy about me, either. He had his reasons for not liking me and I had mine. We were miserable.

I recall one night in particular that I spent sobbing into my pillow while praying and laying out all of my excellent arguments for a divorce. They were really good reasons, I told Him. So what do You say? Don't You agree that we need to be apart?

The answer was very clear. I heard no voice, I had no visible sign but I felt the resounding answer. No. Stay with him. It will be better.

So I stuck it out. And he stuck it out. And Heavenly Father was right. It got better. Again, there were no choirs of angels or silver bullets. It took time, patience, and work and it still does but I'm glad I didn't follow my own arguments. We love each other and we like each other. Sometimes we irritate the crud out of each other but that is the nature of family. We learned how to communicate better with each other and we learned to accept each other the way we are. And because we accepted each other and found each other again, we enlarged our family 8 years ago today.

He is the epitome of joy. Not only is he the most delightful and joyful child, but he encompasses all that is right in our family. We did not immediately decide to have him when we re-committed ourselves to our marriage. We decided to have him after we'd healed and grown a great deal and could say with certainty that our family was not only worth saving but worth adding to. Our happiness multiplied exponentially. He is my cuddly boy, my impulsive hugger, and the best little boy and blessing ever.

We now travel our life road together, hand in hand. We laugh with the kids, we drive them to school or pick them up, we play tag team parenting when the other one isn't quite connecting with a particular child at the time, and we reserve a night all to ourselves and go out without distractions. Not even the best little cuddly boy gets to come with us.

I'm a better person when I walk beside him. We're better together with the kidlets following us. Our children are more confident and secure knowing we are united.

But I still bug the crud out of him sometimes. It is my duty.

Farewell Little Red Hen

2013-03-14T07:00:00.000-06:00

Little Red Hen died.

I went out to gather eggs and found a heap of feathers. I knew immediately that Little Red Hen was in trouble. The feathers were attached to Little Red. The other ladies were talking more than usual. I did not panic. I calmly deferred to my husband. It was a Sunday, a day of rest and dinner was in the crock pot, church finished for the day. His eyes were closed. I poked him twice before asking if he was asleep. He jumped on the second poke so I knew he wasn't asleep, ~~anymore~~. He must have noticed the slight hysteria in my eyes because, although he said he'd get to it in a while, he was up and taking care of Little Red within 5 minutes.

The pecking order has been disrupted. Mama Hen started yelling shortly after dinner. She stood on the porch and yelled for her flock to come to her. Shortly thereafter, Jaxon noticed the Americahna's back. It took me a few more days (a week) but I realized her feather's had been pulled out on her sides and back and she was bleeding. I dug up a few extra juicy worms for her this week.

I need to get a life.

Girls Weekend

2013-03-13T08:41:00.000-06:00

Spring Break 2013 - We're going nowhere. I wanted to get a condo in St. George but couldn't find anything so I went ahead and scheduled Alyssa's wisdom teeth extraction (she has 5 of them which explains why she's so wise) and Samantha is getting surgery on her foot. Remember that bundle of blood vessels Scott had in his brain that the neurosurgeon removed? Well, they grow on feet, too. Just a reminder - hemangioma. I know. Who knew?

So Alyssa wants to check out some of the colleges that are offering her scholarships before making a decision. Knowing that Spring Break is going to be miserable for both of them, she suggested we go to southern Utah and check out Dixie State University, my Alma Mater.Except it was much, much smaller back in the olden days. I think there were pioneers still settling the homesteads in wagons and gingham dresses. It was not a university nor was it a 4 year college. If it were, I'd have stayed.

There was a big baseball tournament in St. George so I figured I'd get a motel room close by in Springdale, gateway to Zion's National Park. Isn't it about 20 minutes from the school? Apparently not. Closer to an hour. 40 minutes if I drive. It does not benefit from the warm climate of St. George. It is cold. Just like at home. We drove through a rain storm which turned to sleet which turned to snow which turned to a white out. Miserable.

We got up to this -

No red rocks to be seen. No breathtaking views. Just overcast. We drove to the university and took a tour.

On our way back, stopped at the ostrich farm. In the middle of nowhere. Just sitting there.

The ostriches were eating and they do not come to me when I call. Like my chickens. However, when I did call to them, all 12 heads poked up. They heard me. They chose to ignore me. Kind of like my children.

Outside the ostrich farm. Our proof that we were there.

Breakfast, anyone?

Then we drove through Zion's National Park. It was too cold to hike that day. We did a small hike the day after. It was muddy but the best pictures were at sunset.

There is also a tunnel that is over a mile long through the mountain. The benefits of going during the off-season is you can stop in the middle of the road and take pictures. This is one opening for the light.

This is through another hole in the tunnel.

"Did you see that deer?" the girls asked. What deer? The one right on the side of the road. So used to tourists, it didn't startle. Not even when I honked my horn. Because I'm rude.

This herd didn't budge when I honked, either. We came across a couple of herds. Since I'm clearly not observant, we were lucky enough to be following a car with people who were. We pulled off like lemurs whenever they did.

We were rewarded with deer and a flock of wild turkeys. Don't get so excited. It's not Thanksgiving.

And this made the drive worth it. This one shot.

Meanwhile, back at home, the boys were doing whatever boys do. I assume they turned on ESPN, ate in the family room, burped, farted, and walked around in their underwear. I didn't ask.

Except that the reason they didn't come is that Jacob had a basketball tournament in the city league. Their team won the championship. They lost one game all season.

I think we were all winners this weekend.

Don't Mess with the New Girl

2013-02-28T07:49:00.000-07:00

It started with a glimpse of a teacher trying to not be seen. I ignored him since I was overwhelmed, anyway. That was a mistake. He pranks offices. His favorite prey are in the counseling section. Small things were amiss. Half hour in, I realized my clock was upside down. Many days I'd find my framed photos upside down or backwards. Any time I found something wrong in my office, half of the school could hear me screech, "Daniel!" He sneaks up behind us, gets close to our ears before he makes a comment, startling us into a scream. Then one day he went too far.

All my framed photos were backwards and askew. My bulletin board was all wrong. The most egregious act of mischief was what he did to my bucket of candy bars. He'd spilled them across my desk, computer, and some fell on the floor.

It was war.

One day he'd done a particularly good job of vandalizing and I knew I would be stepping it up a notch. Poor Daniel is also O.C.D. about order. He has everything placed just so and lamps at every table. He has hung important posters at a uniform height and so many centimeters apart. Not a pencil is lying about. Thanks to a trip to a second hand thrift shop and helpful staff (some of whom didn't know what they were doing by opening that door or handing over that key) and others as mischievous as myself (copy center Holly), I did a lovely job redecorating his room. I have attached an image of creepy doll faces with hands so you can envision about 7 of those babies hot glue gunned throughout the room. One was on his clock. A couple on his lamps, heads and hands. I attached one to his speaker. One poster was of the movie Gladiator. Russell Crowe's face was replaced by a black baby face. I also hung new posters for him, again using the handy hot glue gun. One was a 1990's scene from a quaint Austrian town like I had hanging in my college dorm. Another was a movie poster of Hairspray including John Travolta as the mother. The best was a nearly full size poster of Jimmer. Feature movie size.

Daniel discovered the carnage and came in to the office looking for the culprit and looking slightly disturbed. He was mumbling something about dead babies all over the place. Today he cornered the three female counselors and accused all of us of our sick sense of humor and messing up his perfect room. We could answer, in all honesty, that we did not do it.

I think he might have his suspicions. This was on my monitor:

Don't pick on the new girl. You don't know what she's capable of.

It's a Boast Post

2013-02-26T16:11:00.002-07:00

Last time it was for a newsletter for a local attraction. She won a photo contest aaannd (drum roll, please) a year pass worth $170, thankyouverymuch.

This one has no monetary award. Just an immense amount of parental pride. She did this by herself and told me afterward. The magazine contacted me and requested permission to publish.

If you don't subscribe to The New Era, WHY NOT?! If you heard a thump, that was my foot stomping. Because look at what she did this time.

While I'm in the mood, remember that Christmas card I sent out that peripherally mocked long winded and boastful Christmas letters? Don't I feel self-righteous?

I did. For a minute. But now...

My oldest daughter has been offered full scholarships to four of the colleges/universities she applied to, has been accepted into a university that many applicants don't, and we're still waiting on more.

My oldest son is playing in a basketball tournament this week and his team is undefeated. Except for one game. Then they beat that team. But it's all for building character because it doesn't matter if you win or lose but how you play the game. At least that's what the losers say.

My younger son is just a cuddle bug. And I love him.

This week, Scott and I will have been married for 21 years. My advice? Go to bed angry. A well rested body and brain thinks more rationally in the morning.

Mmmmkay. That's my boast. Thanks for indulging me.

Feel Good

2013-02-19T00:54:00.004-07:00

Great pick me up. Hope you end up smiling by the middle of this, too.

Perspective and Laughter

2013-02-11T10:55:00.000-07:00

My tension headache was already beginning to throb and it was only 8:45 a.m. I had been at work for one hour. This was day 3 of individual student educational occupational plans. I had met with well over two dozen parents who were insisting their child was going to be a doctor, lawyer, or professional athlete. I'd witnessed children arguing with parents that they changed their minds and they did not want to be a radiologist anymore while the parents insisted they most certainly did. One parent was in tears because she feared her child was not on track to complete A.P. calculus and statistics. Every parent I'd met with wanted to know the exact particulars to scholarship applications.

This, my friend, is 8th grade.

I'd also slept very poorly because I'd dreamed that zombies were chasing me and trying to eat my brain. Given my first paragraph, I don't think it takes a psychology degree to interpret that one.

I used my calm voice and, we might as well add, who knew I had one? I answered their questions as best I could and offered websites that are more regularly updated than my brain. I casually pushed the bucket of chocolate with my foot until it was closer to them and wondered where this person that I was pretending to be had come from.

What I really wanted to do is rig the air system to emit Klonopin mist. I wanted to be blunt and tell the parents they are taking themselves way too seriously. I wanted to ask them if they really wanted to saddle their children with their own garbage when they already had enough to carry them through adulthood.

But I didn't. Give me a medal.

Part of me was rolling my eyes at these overbearing parents who want to know all of the answers to all of their questions RIGHT NOW. Another part of me was laughing at myself. In a lot of ways, I get it. Because when we are in the moment, everything seems so much more critical. With a little bit of hindsight comes clarity. Maybe not complete clarity but enough to see if it really was critical and we have regrets or if we were overreacting.

Day 4 brought more seasoned parents. They sat back in their chairs rather than on the edge, jumping at everything I said. I almost hugged one woman when I asked her if she knew about a certain state sponsored scholarship and she answered with a shrug. "I know about it and my older son jumped through all the hoops and got it but I want my children to enjoy high school and explore the elective classes more." The rest of the following two weeks brought parents who had already done the high strung parenting thing and it just hadn't worked out best for their own mental health. They still care but don't hover. Those interactions made me feel more normal. Tension and anxiety are far too contagious.

On Saturday I met with dance friends for lunch. Kari mentioned she'd wrenched her back during Pilates. It was really giving her grief and she wondered if she needed medical attention. Kristy advised her that her P.T. husband had noticed that 90% of all back injuries heal themselves within 2 weeks. I think that statistic is probably true with most of our problems. I think we invent a lot of our problems, too.

I find that I concentrate on that 10% that doesn't heal itself but has left me irrevocably scarred deep in my heart. I don't doubt that those times were the 10% that wouldn't just work out without my attention and deep, earnest prayer but I do wonder if the amount of tension and anxiety I gave it was merited. Sometimes I think I might be hearing but ignoring that quiet, still voice telling me, "You're taking yourself too seriously. Smile. Laugh. Find something humorous in the situation. Learn something from it. Laugh some more."

I am trying. But I haven't ruled Klonopin or Nitrous Oxide in the ventilation system.

Cruel Seasons

2013-01-30T07:00:00.000-07:00

How can I portray my seasonal malaise when I can't even dig out my car?

How do I stay in a climate this ways that is north of the northern most star?

I remember a time in a place that was mine where I sweat while I built a new coop.

But those were the days before the malaise and chicks didn't roost on iced poop.

I think I recall during summer or fall when the colors were other than white.

I could spend all my days without this malaise and the mountains within my sight.

Perhaps I'd feel free if I'd only go ski and I'd fly like the wind as it blows.

But the snow will only melt and it is clearly felt on my skin not covered with clothes.

Oh, Deer Texting

2013-01-23T16:59:00.002-07:00

Between Dad and Daughter:

Oh deer, how r u doing, dear?

Better than the deer :) I tried to think of a good pun to respond with, but all I could come up with is that I just came from seminary so I'm feeling all mushy.

Buck up, it won't cost too much doe

You're better at this 'game' than me.

That's not what I herd.

Mom and I took the car to a car wash. It cost twelve bucks.

Did you get the underside sprayed?

Yep. And a banana bath. My car smells like bananas now instead of deer guts.

Twelve bucks is not bad. You're made of doe, after all.

When she came home from school to give a recounting of the experience, she started by telling me that 1. It was mostly dead, anyway and 2. There's a reason she has a Class B restriction on her license.

Additional benefits of having deer guts on your undercarriage is that teenage boys flock to your side with hero worship and ask if you will show them the underside of your car.

I'm not really sure why, but that last sentence leaves me extremely concerned. I'm hoping it's just my own wording.

Winter In Utah

2013-01-23T13:05:00.004-07:00

"I have to go. Alyssa just hit a deer," my husband announced to me this morning.

"Is she okay?"

"Yeah. Emily's dad came along just after she hit it and helped lift the car off the carcass," he added.

"I don't know what to do with that information."

This is winter in Utah this year. It's colder than the current temperatures in Alaska. The air quality is dangerous to breathe. Surrounded by mountains which is breathtaking when you can see them, cold air is trapped in the pocket called the valley and warm air floats happily above us while cold, smoggy air pollutes everything else. Visibility is dismal in the morning. This kind of winter happens about every 7 or 8 years.

It. Is. Miserable.

Back to the cold. It snowed on Christmas day. We've not reached a high of freezing since. In fact, anything above the teens is a heat wave. I haven't seen the street in front of my house for nearly a month.

Evidenced by a photo I took yesterday:

Hi, Joan! I can kind of see your house! I'm waving at you! But you can't see me, can you.

And here is our little miracle asphalt. I wore black pants so it's hard to determine the size but it is a little bigger than my size 6.5 shoe.

That's just sad.

Lethargy and Seasonal Affective Disorder is running rampant in these parts. Last week I ran out of brown bread. I cried through my shower. Then a half an hour past my shower.

In the summer time when I reread this post I will puzzle at my previous statements but right now I completely comprehend crying over running out of brown bread. It means that I've lost my mental capacity to keep a running tally in my head of household items. I don't do Franklin Planners. I don't do smart phones. I make lists before I go to the store so I stay focused but I generally know where I stand in terms of toilet paper, paper towels, milk, sour cream, Diet Coke, and brown bread, among other necessary staples of the household.

Ironically, I was told that we were out of paper towels on Saturday so I went to the store and bought a mega package of paper towels. When I pulled into the garage after my store run, my eyes wandered to the top of the storage freezer. There was a super mega package of paper towels. How did I not know that? I know these things. I remember these things. But not in this winter funk. The air is heavy and fuzzy and so are our brains and moods. I can't wait to get outside and dig up worms with my chickens. Play in the dirt. Pull those dreaded weeds.

Trying to be optimistic, I will proudly tell you that my daughter actually performed an act of mercy this morning. The real story of the deer is that she saw something in the road and thought it was a block of ice. She decided she shouldn't hit such a large block of ice and slowed to a stop. But not quite in time. She stopped on the deer which was mostly dead already. Someone else had already hit the beast. She just finished it off. And I can't help but be very, very grateful that her best friend's dad just happened to drive on that same road at that moment.

She's okay. The car is mostly okay. Suffice to say, it needs a car wash. Badly. But we can't wash it because ice will form after the wash and then you can't open the doors.

Funk.

Divine Design, Fear Not

2013-01-15T17:44:00.001-07:00

It is so cold and miserable. I honestly have not seen the road in front of my house since Christmas Day. I went hunting for a video I know I took one hot, summer day for the express purpose to watch on a cold, winter day. I found one of the dog rolling around on the sprinkler which was fun to watch but not quite what I needed. Turns out, the video I wanted wasn't really what I needed.

I needed to be reminded to not take myself so seriously. I needed to be reminded that I don't have to try to control everything in my environment or my children's environment. I needed to be reminded that Someone Else, bigger than me, wiser than me, and kinder than me is watching out for all of us. I needed to be reminded that of a wise General, Stonewall Jackson, summarized it in one statement, "Never take counsel from fear."

If you want to believe it was serendipity that I stumbled upon this essay I posted in 2009, feel free to do so. I think I was a conduit for giving myself counsel nearly four years later. I also stumbled upon another piece of writing that is giving me some peace during a tumultuous time of parenting and life, an address given to a college on graduation day this past December, Fear Not, I Am With Thee.

Here are my sunflowers and a divine design:

The sunflowers are definitely the crowning glory of the garden this year. It amazes me, actually. Out of dirt grew something I planted and it's 12 ft. high and has the circumference of a tree. I want to take credit for having such an amazing sunflower garden. In fact, if the Roma tomatoes turn red at the same time and I am busy canning, I want to take credit for that, too.

The truth is that I bought the sunflower seeds on a whim. I saw them and thought they'd be fun for the kids to watch grow. I planted them and left them alone. I let the sprinklers water them and planted them in the sun. When the bugs got really bad, I sprayed them a little bit when I was spraying the vegetables. That's it. And now I am deemed the Sunflower Queen.

So that started me thinking about how kids turn out. If I hover over them and try to control every little thing they do, will it really do any good? If I don't worry about the small stuff and they don't turn in their homework and don't develop excellent reading skills by the third grade will they really end up in prison by the age of 16? If I yell sometimes, make mistakes, and feed them candy after 9:00 at night will it really matter if it all ends up as a tell-all on a therapist's couch in the near future?

If I am the perfect mother who never raises her voice and enforces natural consequences and teaches my children to eat with their mouths closed and never make rude noises using their hands and armpits, am I really guaranteed that they will never fail? If I teach them to pray, study their scriptures, be kind to others, will they never experience disappointment and heartbreak?

Is there a chance that children come already encoded with who they are and just need fertile ground and an occasional watering? How does a mother judge success in mothering? With so many variables, how can a parent take credit for a child being a success story or blame for a child choosing to engage in illegal behavior? Can we really believe that we can control the way our child turns out? Can we really control every mitigating circumstance?

In the same garden as the sunflowers are my woeful cucumbers. I planted three plants. One came up. Same soil. Same sun. Same water. Wax beans were spotty but the good plants are great producers. Success or failure? What did I do to grow any of it?

My children have a home with parents that love them to pieces. Sometimes they know it, sometimes they don't. They have food to eat - both healthy and not so much. They also have parents who are imperfect (except for Mr. Taylor, that is) but who want them to be happy and strong, trying so hard to control the environment so that part will be nurtured and grow. Will it? I don't know. I have 18 short years to shove all my experience and wisdom into their little brains. Problem is, I'm still learning. They are my guinea pigs.

I'm just going to have to trust their encoding and variables I can't control. I'm going to have to trust their systems are wired to adapt and learn. Like the sunflowers, they will turn their faces to the Sun for nourishment and healing.

I also hope they are forgiving and see good intention.

Growing Pains

2013-01-10T23:30:00.004-07:00

It's midyear. That's code for schedule changes. Which is really code for my life is a living hell if you are a school counselor. On top of it, let's be honest, change is hard. Although the least important of priorities, my change of workplace is probably my biggest stressor. Strange I would say that considering what tumbled out and flew towards me en mass this year. Let's just say it is the most consistent change that stretches my abilities to cope.

Then there's the parenting guilt. Wait. Before I wallow into guilt, I must boast. My oldest daughter applied to seven colleges. She has heard back from six. Acceptance is a given. One college offered her a two year, full tuition scholarship. Today she heard from another university and has been offered full tuition, four year scholarship. I am proud. So very, very proud. But I attribute it to a very strong girl who succeeds in spite of her upbringing. Bless her heart.

There is guilt #1. She needs to take college tours. Yesterday. I've taken her on (count them) one. Yes, just one. Being in northern Utah and it being freaking cold right here in not northern Utah, it doesn't seem to be calling her name. I can't even make myself go to Costco. Worse, we're out of milk and I can't make myself go the grocery store which is .6 miles from my house. Even before the blizzard hit. When can I make it to the colleges? Bad mom.

My boys are doing the best they can with a mother who is overwhelmed and ~~a brain damaged father~~ a father healing from brain surgery. Still, my oldest boy is trying to do everything on his own and really needs some parental input and encouragement. My younger boy is running wild. While I was a particular parent with my girls, teaching my oldest to read at the age of three because I used to believe that whatever I did or said mattered, my last conversation with my youngest child's teacher started with her asking, "What is your feeling on special education?"

What I didn't say was, "I find special education fascinating, myself. So fascinating that I am certified to teach it in any public school in the state." Not that I do. What I did say was, "Do you have a 'Permission to Evaluate' form and a pen?"

I also spent time with him that day showing him how to carry the tens and he was so excited to understand it. I've been doing spelling activities with him and making him write his numbers and letters not backwards. I expect I will finish out this week on a good note and return to my bad habits next week. Because next week is the beginning of a new semester.

Which brings me to Guilt #1.5 and I don't know why this makes me feel guilty. My 15 year old daughter will be transferring to my school at the beginning of next semester. Her school just hasn't been working out. Her social scene is nonexistent and she is ignored. She loves her teachers and they love her even though she doesn't turn in her homework because her mom is such a loser that she doesn't make her turn it in just to be clear on that point.

(Brag #2: She needed to take a state test on computer technology. I want her to take it early so I can check her out of her school and into her new school ASAP. She took it today without having the study session the other students will have. Her teacher proudly told me that, out of approximately 450 9th graders, about 5 score above 90% every year. My daughter is one of them. TADA! Throw confetti! Wish I could take some credit but I can't! But I'm still proud!)

So I'm working on her schedule and talking around to my colleagues and parents because I'm going to be counselor so I'll put her in everything she wants because I love her and I'm biased. Yet every night for the past week, after everybody has gone to bed, I cry because I couldn't help her make it work where she was. And I pray that it will be better. Then I cry some more, wipe off the snot and tell myself I'm too tired to think clearly and go to bed. Get up and repeat.

Just so you know, Seasonal Affective Disorder Syndrome is very real. We're all suffering from it. Today I went into another office that sports a window and pasted myself against it. One colleague asked me if I was okay. Of course not, I had replied. I'm strung so tight you could play me like a violin.

I stopped a West Texas teacher in the hallway. By the way, West Texas and Texas are different, apparently. Just ask anybody from West Texas. I told her I had another student that I wanted to be her aide one hour. "Is she a straight A student," she asked with her sweet, syrupy southern drawl. It was thick and heavy which is always a bad sign. I was going to get chewed out. "I won't take any more of your projects, you know. I need a person who will actually show up and help me. By the way, that last girl you gave me, you warned me she needed support but she's been just precious! What was wrong with her?" I quickly replied that the student had a case of CMS.

"What's CMS? Is that a psychology term," said with the sweetest drawl and cold, steely look.

"Crazy Mother Syndrome. By the way, this student I want you to take also has CMS but you'll love her. She's pretty amazing in spite of her mother," I clarified.

"What's her name," she demanded. I told her. "I'll look her up," she continued. I explained she'd be new to the school so she's not in the system, yet. "How do you know her, then?"

"I'm her mother." I swallowed. Loud.

"I thought you said she had CM... Ohhh! I see," her Southern drawl softened. "Send the sweet thang to me."

Some of my new colleagues are starting to understand me and taking pity on mine.

Last brag of this post: My darling 17 year old daughter was in a talent show this week. This is one other reason I cry late at night. I can't stand to think of her not living at home. Given, I see her so rarely, anyway. She has a very busy social calendar.

Here she is with some of those friends. It's a Mini-Stomp. They were short a broom or two.

More Freezer/Crock Pot Meals

2013-01-07T08:30:00.000-07:00

Were you waiting with bated breath?

I thought so.

More crock pot meals to make ahead of time and freeze:

Honey Bourbon Chicken
(Although there's not really bourbon in it. Got your attention, though
Great flavor and can be served on rolls or over rice.

4 lbs. boneless, skinless chicken thighs or breasts
2 C. honey
*I thought that was excessive so I use 1 c. honey and 1 c. brown sugar. Because I'm ~~cheap~~ frugal like that.
1 c. low sodium soy sauce
1/2 c. ketchup
4 T. olive oil
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 c. diced onion
1/2 t. red pepper flakes.

Split the above between two gallon Ziploc bags and sprinkle with salt and pepper, remove as much air as possible, seal and freeze.

When ready to place in crockpot, take out the soup mixture and add 1/2 c. water directly to the bag. Pour into crockpot and cook on low 3-4 hours or high 2-3 hours. Low is best and can be cooked longer than 4 hours if needed. About 30 minutes before done, take out a few T. liquid and add 2-3 t. cornstarch. Mix and then add back to crockpot and stir to thicken sauce. Garnish with sesame seeds and serve over rice or shred meat and serve on rolls.

Chicken Fajitas
Can use beef instead. I was naughty and used half the amount of chicken but compensated with shredded Mozzerella cheese. My family loved me.

4 lbs. boneless, skinless chicken thighs or breasts
2 cups sliced onion
2 red peppers sliced in half circle slices
2 green peppers sliced in half circle slices
2 t. chili powder
2 t. cumin
1 package fajita seasoning mix
1 can chicken broth
Juice from one lime

Split the above between two gallon Ziploc bags and sprinkle with salt. Remove as much air as possible and seal. In a separate bag, add 8-10 tortillas and seal. Place both bags inside another gallon Ziploc bag and seal. Freeze.

When ready to place in crockpot, take out the soup mixture and add 1/2 c. water directly to the chicken bag. Pour into crockpot and cook on low for 3-4 hours or high 2-3 hours. Reserve the tortillas in the fridge or on the counter. Low is best and can be cooked longer than 4 hours if needed.

Serve as a casserole or wrap in tortillas and stack side by side. Top with more cheese and some of the sauce. Bake until cheese on top melts. Big hit in my family.

Prepared Crock Pot Dinners

2013-01-04T08:37:00.000-07:00

At the end of the day, dinner is the last thing you want to think about. Unfortunately, dinner is a necessary meal for growing children and hungry adults. A friend of mine gave this idea to our group of friends. She gathered her best crock pot recipes and tested them out. Each recipe makes 12 servings. She splits each recipe into two bags, squeezes out as much air as possible, and stores them sitting up (not flat). When ready to cook, add a half to a whole cup of hot water to help thaw, empty the Ziploc bag into crock pot and come home from work or at the end of the day to a dinner ready to eat! I find we always have leftovers so someone can take it with them to work the following day or there may be enough for another meal the next day.

Buy canned goods at case lot sales which are going on now in some locations. Price match meat at Walmart. Once you buy your meat, keep it in the refrigerator for up to two days. It's best to put the meals together in a Ziploc bag within 24 hours. My friend buys her food (including meat) on a Friday evening then sets aside four hours on Saturday morning. She makes 24 meals in that time and puts them in a freezer. She's finished for the month with room for spaghetti or tacos or pizza a few times a month. I've been doing it for a month and it cuts down on a lot of headache. She lost ten pounds in a month by eating in.

Here are some tips:

Do not use previously frozen meat. Buy it all at the same time or buy one type of meat and make the dinners using that meat within 24 hours, keeping the meat in the refrigerator until you put the dinners together.
Gather all of the needed ingredients and set them out on the counter with a can opener and Ziploc bags. It's only a matter of putting the ingredients in the bags and closing them up at that point.
Double bag the meals. Especially soups. They do leak sometimes once they thaw.
Squeeze the air out in an upright position for the bag. Don't lay it flat to squeeze it out. You want to open the bag, maybe add a half to a whole cup of warm water and dump it into the crock pot without spilling.
Buy crock pot liners. I started out buying them but I find crock pots are easy to clean. On the other hand, crock pot liners to cut down on the mess which cuts down on time spent in the kitchen.
Play music when you are putting the meals together. Enjoy!

I'm going to share a few of these recipes so you can get started. I can't begin to tell you how this has been helping our family out the past month. Also, I was very tired of our standard dinners. These are new for us and we're enjoying them immensely. I'll post more in the upcoming week.

Broccoli Beef

Better than Panda Express!

Ingredients

3 lbs	Boneless beef sirloin or stew meat
2 c.	Beef consomme
1 c.	Soy sauce
2/3 c	Brown sugar
6	Cloves garlic
1/4 t	Red pepper flakes
1 T	Sesame oil (or olive)

Directions

Split the ingredients between two gallon Ziploc bags, remove as much air as possible and seal. In two separate bags, place 2 cups (each) broccoli florets and seal. Place both bags in another gallon Ziploc and freeze.

When ready to place in crockpot, take out the bag with meat mixture and add 1/2 c. water directly to the chicken bag. Pour into crockpot and cook on low for 6-8 hours or high 5-6 hours. Reserve broccoli in freezer until last 30 min. of cooking time. Take out three to four T. liquid and mix with 2 to 3 T. cornstartch to thicken sauce. Pour back into crockpot for last 30 minutes with broccoli. Serve over rice.

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Shredded French Dip

Ingredients:

2 boneless beef chuck pot roasts (about 3 lbs. each)

2 cans condensed french onion soup, undiluted (Campbell's)

2 cans beef consomme (Campbell's)

2 cans beef broth, undiluted

2 beef bouillon cubes.

Directions:

Split the above between two gallon Ziploc bags, remove as much air as possible and seal, freeze. When ready to place in crock pot, take out the bag and add 1 cup water directly to the bag. Pour into crockpot and cook on low for 6-8 hours or high 5-6 hours. Remove roast and shred with two forks. Place on rolls with optional cheese. Skim fat from cooking juices and serve as a dipping sauce. Also delicious served over mashed potatoes.

More to come...

It's Called Snow

2012-12-28T12:47:00.000-07:00

Dear Gina (in Australia), Amy (in Africa), Tiffany, Tonia and Anna (in Texas),

This is my dog, Sunday. She is a Labrador. The snow has swallowed her legs.

Here she is again. The Ladies are in the coop. They are sad because they like to free range and eat grass.

First one to heat up the hot tub and clear off a spare bed gets me as a house guest for the next 10 weeks. And Sunday.

Don't tell my husband or the kids.

With love and affection from Utah, the freakin' greatest snow on earth,

Nancy