Boys Will Be Boys

"Henry was in a Time-Out today," his preschool teacher announced this afternoon when I entered the classroom to pick him up.  "He was playing Super Heroes which is against our preschool rules.  Someone always ends up having to be a bad guy and it's not fair so we play Super Friends instead.  He knows the rule which I explained to parents in the weekly newsletter.  He just forgot the rule today," she added.

I had actually read the newsletter announcing the ban on Super Hero play, so I simply nodded and said, "O.K."  His teacher is definitely the I-Love-You-You-Love-Me sort.  She believes in holding hands and looking in each other's eyes to resolve conflicts. She also believes it is horrible to teach our kids to say, "It's O.K." after someone apologizes for hurting them or their feelings because, and I quote, "It is not o.k.!"  Instead they should explain how their actions made them feel.   Quite honestly, I admire her philosophy and more power to her for implementing it in her classroom.   But, with fifteen pre-schoolers, that's got to be an awful lot of mini-therapy sessions to hold.

Henry is a boy. He has brothers.  He's going to play war and football, Scooby-Doo and Star Wars and, yes, even Super Heroes.  I understand that it's a preschool rule and the best way to help him follow the rule is to reinforce it at home, but.....I think it's kind of a stupid rule.

Do you have boys?  I have learned that boys will be boys will be boys no matter what you do.  When Seth was a toddler, I didn't want him to play with toy guns.  They seemed really violent and unnecessary but eventually a stick became a gun.  Or a car.  Or a fork.  I don't know where it comes from but I do know that shoot 'em up, explosion sound making, love to wrestle anywhere did not come from me.

My instinct tells me it comes from them.  From their boy-ness.  Of course I think there are exceptions.  Some boys like to brush their teeth....somewhere...I'm sure.  I wasn't lucky enough to get any of those in my house but I know boys who have organized rooms and would rather read than wrestle.  I don't think that they lack anything essential in boy-ness, but I do think that the majority have this rough and tumble nature.

So, I kind of blew her off.  No big deal. Of course, I don't want him hurting other kids feelings but I also think kids can work that out themselves most of the time.

At least, I hope so after listening to Sam on the drive home after dropping Seth off at football practice.   We had arrived about twenty minutes early because we came directly from piano lessons, so Sam and Seth went to play catch while we waited for other players and his coaches to arrive.

As some of the other boys arrived, a game of keep away or five-hundred or tag or something started and Sam joined in with the fifth graders.  I watched from my van and it looked to me like everyone was having a good time.  Seth wasn't getting a lot of passes, but he usually doesn't and it doesn't seem to bother him.

But, once we were on our way home, Sam said, "The other boys kind of pick on Seth, Mom."  My heart dropped and I asked, "What do you mean?"

"They tease him that he can't catch."

And, suddenly, I wanted to turn the car around and march out onto the field and have the boys hold hands and look into each others' eyes and explain how saying things like that hurts feelings.   I want to defend Seth and say, "Yes, he's not very coordinated but he's improving.  And he loves football.  And he loves being part of this team. So play nice!!!"

But....

Boys will be boys.  And, kids can work it out themselves most of the time... right?

What Was That?

When I was in elementary school, I think it was fifth grade, but it could have been sixth, I attended a sleep-over birthday party.  I don't remember a lot about the party except we ate a lot of pizza, my friend had orange shag carpet in her dark basement and we watched a rated R Stephen King horror movie, Silver Bullet.

Now, if this gives you justification in not allowing sleep-overs for your kids, so be it, but that is not the point of this post.  What I learned that night and what I have adhered to since that day is that scary things and I should not mix.

Oh, Nelly, did I have nightmares!  A few nights after the party, I remember being so frightened on my top bunk that I was sure the moment I got out of bed to seek refuge in my parent's room upstairs, some murderer would appear and that would be that.  I did work up the nerve to get out of bed, and with my heart racing and feet touching the carpet like it was a bed of hot coals, I raced up the stairs and confessed all to my parents.

I have never, in the twenty plus years that have followed, watched a scary movie.  Spy thrillers, yes, but not the random violent/someone is hiding in your car wearing a mask kind.  I don't do haunted houses.  Ever.  I don't even read scary books.  Again...mysteries, yes, but not this-serial-killer-is-going-to-get-me plots.  Even the rides at theme parks where you ride in the dark and things jump out at you take quite a lot of convincing for me to ride (what's the point????)

I guess some people like being scared but I am not one of them.  It goes against all logic to spend so much time, money and energy to ensure our safety (alarms, locking doors, seatbelts, etc.) and to then go pay good money for someone to scare you on purpose.  No, Stephen King and his werewolf movie took all the fun out of being afraid for me and the result of watching his movie at an impressionable age is my ardent avoidance of all things scary.  Perhaps it was a good lesson for me to learn at ten or eleven years of age.  If that gives you justification in allowing sleep-overs, so be it.  But that is still not the point of this post.

Which leads me to my point: contrary to how I have painted myself, I am actually very rarely scared.   It happens occasionally.  Jay has snuck up on me a few times, made me scream, been hit from my rush of adrenaline, watched me cry when all those hormones need to get out and then sincerely apologized because he realized that scaring his wife on purpose is mean.  But, mostly, I am a confident, not afraid of the dark, not afraid to be alone kind of girl.

Something jangled my nerves this morning, however.  I was in Jay's office on the computer and I heard a door close followed by a few footsteps.  The sound lasted for only a second and then it stopped.  I called out, "Hello? Is someone there?" because...well...I suppose I thought someone was inside.  A delivery man (I do have a few things being shipped), a friend, a family member.  It has happened before where I have come home to discover that someone has been inside and dropped something off so that was my first train of thought.

When no one answered, my heart started uncomfortably racing.  I know I heard something so from the doorway of Jay's office, I cautiously stepped out into the hallway, fully expecting the possibility that someone could jump from behind a wall and "get me."

Still...nothing.  So, I tip toed into the kitchen.  By this time, I reasoned that whatever I heard was not an intruder but I was still scared.  It really had sounded like footsteps so I went to the kitchen drawer and pulled out a big chef's knife.  Seeing as I have no ninja skills, I'm not sure what good it would have done, but it felt better having some sort of defense in my hands.

Nothing happened.  Obviously.  Maybe a bird flew into my window (although I am pretty sure I have that sound down) or maybe the wind blew some debris so that it sounded like footsteps.

Whatever it was, it has reminded me that I hate being scared.  So I sit here, ears on high alert, with a knife on top of the desk.   I suppose, just in case.

Being Vague

I'm breaking one of my cardinal blogging rules tonight by being vague.   Wasn't that the entire point of the September Snippets anyways (refer to first paragraph)?  To steer clear of oversharing when oversharing isn't an option?   I promise I'd blog about something, anything else, if I could but my mind is whirring about this thing that consumes my emotional energy but which I can only vaguely refer to.

I thought about it this morning as I wogged on the river trail (but not when I ran significantly faster than my heart wanted me to as the train chugged along beside me near the library.  Lots of people watching, you know.  Had to put on a good show).

I thought about it when I paid $4.00 to send a fax.  I think if my mind hadn't be befuddled with this issue I'm vaguely mentioning, I might have shopped around a bit.  $4.00 to use what is essentially a phone line seems a bit pricey. 

I couldn't finish the Cub Scout Pack Meeting program I started to create and hoped to print out because every time I got on the computer, I would get distracted and eventually end up surfing various web sites that might help me handle this thing I am being annoyingly vague about.

When my precious boys came home after school, I quickly became frustrated with all of their needs (snacks, signatures, finding football equipment, broken glasses, counting out rhythms to understand the difference between a quarter note and an eighth note) not because their needs were unreasonable, but after a day spent pondering this important matter in my head, being jolted back into my real world seemed garish and noisy.

Jay is off wearing chaps (ooh la la) and herding cattle with his brothers and dad (yee-haw!)so bedtime was a solo routine tonight. By this time, the boys knew I was distracted so they lovingly kissed me, told me goodnight and went upstairs all on their own. Well...Seth and Sam did. Henry had some issues which ended with him sleeping in the guest room instead of his own but I'm sure his tantrum only erupted because his mother had ignored his four year old need for attention all afternoon and evening and was unwilling to continue to leave me be. Snuggling with him on the soft queen-sized bed was the perfect release from my heavy introspection.

Now it is quiet. And all I can do is think, think, think.

Wouldn't you like to know what about? ;-)

P.S. I will make a serious effort to never, ever write a vague blog post again and when the moment comes when oversharing is allowed, plan on once again knowing too much.  

Sarah's Cinquain

sarah and I showing off our turquoise pendants we found this weekend for about 80% off

She came
Not for long but
Any visit is great
Especially when I get a
Sister

All I Need

...is for this guy to come home and make me smile.

Three on Thursday

I am feeling extremely uninspired right now. But, I've got a good streak going on and want to post something. Rather than developing any one snippet very well, I'm going to write about three rather roughly.

1. I think I got scammed today. While I was applying my Bare Minerals make-up (ta-da!), the blue wall phone in my bathroom rang and I found myself speaking to a pleasant Paula Dean sounding woman, who explained that she was calling on behalf of the Blind and Handicapped Association and they weren't asking for a donation or seeking out charity, but instead, they were asking me to support the blind and handicapped who worked to take care of themselves. That sales pitch gelled with my need for balance between helping people who are at a disadvantage in life and encouraging self-reliance. She explained that they were selling seven-year lightbulbs, a flag kit and a mop. I actually needed a mop so I told her that I'd get that. For $60. O.K. That's one overpriced mop, but...it's supporting a good cause, right?

Now, normally I am a "No" and hang-up before they can even start their spiel, but the other day, I was reading the blog of a friend who suffers from Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. She has been unable to work and take care of herself for fourteen years because of her disability. With her despair still fresh in my head, I gallantly offered to buy the mop, but once I was off the phone, I couldn't shake the feeling that something didn't feel right. When I described what happened to my sister, Sarah, she said, "Google them."

In the Google search bar, I typed, "Blind and Handicapped selling lightbulbs," and this forum about a 251 area code (which is what my Caller ID showed) popped up at the top of the result list. I clicked on it and it was filled with all of these people who were complaining about a so-called group selling lightbulbs, Flag kits and mops (and air-fresheners, but they weren't offered to me)for the blind and handicapped association that were poor quality and cheaply made. One of the comments was written by someone who claimed to have worked there and she said that it's a for-profit telemarketing company that changes its phone number every few days so the BBB can't find them. The guy running it is supposedly an ex-con. Still, it didn't feel like an obvious scam. I didn't have to give my credit card information and the kind southern woman promised by buying a mop, I wasn't being put on some subscription list with pages of fine print. So...I don't know. I guess I'll wait and see what the mop looks like.

2. I had a stowaway cat in my car for the better part of the day. The two kittens we got are exclusively garage cats. It's a finished garage so it's perfectly comfortable in both summer and winter. They are excellent mousers, killing machines if you want to know the truth, and I've been pleased with our decision to get them. However, the Siamese-looking cat really wants to be a house cat and sneaks inside at every available opportunity and the black cat is in love with the inside of my minivan. One morning, I started backing out of the garage and started screaming when a pair of yellow eyes looked back at me from the dashboard.

Today, after leaving a Chinese cooking class relief society meeting, I headed into town to have lunch with my friend, Sue, and heard meowing. Sure enough, there was Jem standing on all fours right behind me. She had to have been in there since I took the boys to school at 7:30 am. That's the only explanation I can think of unless there is a hole somewhere in the floor of my car she can crawl up through. Since she had been in there for almost five hours, I knew she had to go to the bathroom but I was in town and cats aren't like dogs. They don't seem to go just anywhere, do they? I took a chance and left her in the car while I went to lunch, wondering what I was going to do because I had a choir practice at the college at 2:30. Luckily, Sue and I finished before then and I had just enough time to drive all the way back home, get rid of the cat and get back to the college. I may be paranoid, but I think I got a whiff of cat pee. There were some beach towels in the cargo area which I took out to wash and I'm fervently hoping that the smell (which may be imaginary after all. You know when you're expecting a smell and you can almost produce it?) was really the towels (which were from swimming, so that doesn't really make sense. Unless the cat peed on those). I'm more than a little disturbed by it.

3. It hit me today that Henry is almost five. He's sick today, so I was carrying him on my hip when we went into the library during soccer practice, and I realized that I hardly ever carry him like that anymore. He's almost....too big. All kids eventually reach that stage. After all, I don't ever carry Seth or Sam on my hip anymore. Can you imagine (just got a good chuckle picturing Seth dangling off my hip)? It's odd because I never felt especially sentimental when I got rid of our crib, bottles, exersaucer etc. I don't know if the baby years were more stressful for me so I was less sad to see them go, or if it just happened so fast that I didn't have time to be sentimental, but I am almost to the point where my hips will have become useless. No more child bearing. No more hip toting. Now what excuse will I have?

Seriously, when that thought came, I almost started weeping (the one about no longer having a young child. Not the one about being able to explain my wide hips). Henry's been so little for so long, I suppose I thought it would it would always be that way. Instead, he is disobeying me just like my other boys and growing up.

25+34+15 = I Hate United Airlines

There is so much background information I need to give in order to fully understand why I cried for 15 minutes straight tonight. I'll try to be brief.

Months and months ago, Jay decided to go to RSNA (the biggest radiology conference of the year) in Chicago the week after Thanksgiving. He invited me along but, as you know, that is simply a horrible time to travel. I declined.

He also happened to find a marathon he wanted to run in Memphis, Tennessee that following Saturday. So, he made plans to fly to Chicago and on Friday, fly to Memphis, run the marathon and fly home Saturday afternoon. Kind of indulgent, but good Saturday marathons can be hard to find, and he trains so hard that he totally deserves to run in whatever races he wants to. I think.

In a completely unrelated melodrama, I recently auditioned and joined a local choir. It's a much higher caliber choir than what I anticipated a town this size could put together, and have enjoyed the weekly rehearsals, preparing Durfler's Requiem and Hovland's Saul. The conductor seemed very friendly and competent and I often laughed at her witticism and her fervent belief that no choir member should ever, ever hum their note when it is given.

Disarmed by her friendliness, I sent her an email explaining my unfortunate situation about having a trip, also planned months and months ago, to Disneyland with my family the week before our first concert. The tickets are paid for and it was on the calendar long before I even thought about auditioning. Apologetically but also feeling totally justified, I let her know that I'd miss the final dress rehearsal but would be back in time for the concert. When I didn't hear back from her, I approached her during the break of our next practice to make sure she'd gotten my email.

She was mad. She told me she didn't even know how to respond to a message like that. I was totally flabbergasted and meekly nodded as she informed me that she has a huge, huge problem with my absence and didn't know if my singing in the concert would be possible. She then told me to keep coming to choir until she let me know otherwise.

Now, I am very much like my sensitive children in that I hate to be yelled at. Even while I stewed about her decision, she called me and invited me to sing with her and the college chamber choir for the new president's inauguration the first Friday of October. Wanting to reassure her that I'm a team player, and totally flattered that she'd even think of me, I quickly told her I'd do it and we've already practiced with the college students once. We're doing two lovely pieces's, Staheli's "How Can I Keep From Singing" and The King Singers "You Are The New Day."

With what I interpreted as her olive branch not to mention her continued silence about my Disneyland conflict, I've felt optimistic that although she's unhappy about my frolicking off to California, she still wants me to sing with the choir.

Now, let me merge the two stories.

Yesterday morning, United Airlines called and left a recorded message about a flight schedule change. After much, much running around with their obnoxious automated system, I finally spoke with someone with a heartbeat and learned that Jay's return flight from Memphis to home had been changed and was now scheduled to leave much earlier in the day. Because Jay will be running a marathon and physically cannot finish any faster, the only available option was to have him fly home a day later. United offered a $250 voucher as a means to apologize for his inconvenience.

In a rush of love and spontaneity, I said to Jay, "Well, if you're not coming home until Sunday, and we have the $250 voucher, I'll come to Memphis to watch you run!" I've never been to Memphis and love traveling to places I've never been before. He hopes to run a PR on this flat, fast course and who wouldn't want a witness for a PR? 25 minutes later, our excitement led to a confirmation code for a round-trip flight between here and Memphis. With the $250 voucher, we were only out $166 out of pocket and both of us were thrilled with the idea of spending a weekend together.

Later that night, while driving home from choir, my heart sunk as I remembered that the choir's Christmas concert was scheduled for that very weekend.

I told Jay about the situation and he told me to stay home. He's felt my stress as I've lived with the near unbearable knowledge that someone thinks I'm flaky and don't take my commitments seriously and said it wasn't worth risking further scorn. I told him I'd sleep on it.

Today has been busy and I've been away from my house since 7:30 this morning except for the hour I came home to shower after swimming. Then, by noon, I was off again, not to return until 5:30 this evening. Throughout the day, I've thought about what I should choose to do. In all honestly, although I love singing and love Christmas songs, I'd rather go to Memphis to watch Jay. Rumor has it that the Christmas concert is not the choir's highlight and it's pretty low-key. Lots of caroling and quick to learn music. As there are only three rehearsals between our big fall concert and the Christmas concert, I'd guess the rumors to be true. In other words, maybe it wouldn't be such a big deal to miss this concert?

Except. The Director already hates me. Oh, I know she doesn't hate me, but she thinks I'm one of those whiners that wants special treatment. And, I guess I am since I bought a freaking plane ticket the same weekend as one of our concerts. Oh...to have those 25 minutes back! I'd remember the Christmas concert and although I'd feel bad that my weekend in Memphis with Jay wasn't going to work out, I would not buy that ticket. I'd honor my commitment to sing with the choir, no matter the repertoire, because that's what I signed up to do.

By the time I returned home, I had made up my mind to cancel my ticket. I knew it was the responsible thing to do so after I walked in from the garage, I went to the computer so I could have my email confirmation on screen the same time I was on the phone with United.

The have a full-refund policy if you cancel within twenty-four hours. I didn't know this, but was hoping that someone there would be able to listen to reason and if unable to give me a full refund, would at least be able to issue me another voucher to use towards the purchase of a future ticket. When I explained the situation to the English-is-his-second-language agent, he very matter-of-factly told me that he couldn't do anything about refunding the voucher, because it had been used, but that he could refund me the $166. However, there would be a $150 cancellation/change fee.

I pleaded with him that it seemed unfair that I'd lose $400 due to a few minutes of spontaneity and forgetfulness less than twenty-four hours ago. When I mentioned that, he perked up, saying that he could refund me the full amount if I bought the ticket less than twenty-four hours ago. I said that I had and after a few clickity-clacks on his computer, he said, "No. It says here that you purchased this ticket twenty-four hours and 34 minutes ago."

And that was that. Was there anything else he could do for me?

I hung up the phone and started to cry. 34 minutes. 34 minutes and I wouldn't have been out $400. 34 minutes and I wouldn't begrudge that Christmas concert. 34 minutes and I wouldn't have bawled my eyes out for the next 15 minutes.

Because now the entire weekend is spoiled for me either way. If I go to Memphis (which Jay is now INSISTING I not do) I will be out of the choir. I can feel it. I'll either quit to save myself the embarrassment or be kicked out because I can't manage to stay in town for a concert (as if I have this jet setting lifestyle). If I don't go to Memphis, I'll resent every single note singing schmaltzy Christmas carols to 200 people that don't really care and are probably all relatives of choir members anyways.

What's ultimately the most frustrating to me is how badly trying to do something spontaneous backfired. I just wanted to get away. To be young and uncommitted and fun. To do something with my husband. We had this voucher....and it seemed so....romantic and....

I do hate United Airlines for their stupid rules and inability to be reasonable. But, I'm mostly disappointed in myself. What a bungled mess I've made.

I Will Share Anything With You....But I Won't Share That

I just realized it's the third time in a week that I've used the name of a song as the basis of my title.  I'd change it but how often does one get to reference a song by Meatloaf  and have it make sense?  I promise I'll use my inner Weird Al Yankovich more judiciously in the future.

Because of our cash budget, every two weeks, I write out a check for cash and go through the Drive-Thru Banking lanes to get it.  I was surprised today when the person who said "Hello" behind the glass was someone I knew.

I smiled and made a bit of idle chit-chat, but while I was waiting for her to send me back my cash in the denominations I requested, I realized how awkward I felt.

She knew exactly what was in our bank account.

If she cared to know, she could probably go and find out what we spend our money on too.  It's an unnerving feeling, knowing someone has access to your financial data.  Oh, I'm sure she's professional about it.  I doubt she goes home and says, "Lucy sure buys things from Amazon.com frequently," or "Guess what their mortgage is each month?"  But....she could.

It's like having someone see you naked.

Why is that such a fear of ours?  Our clothes may hide or flatter certain parts of our body, but they can't change the general shape of our bodies.  It would probably not be a very big surprise if you did, in fact, see someone naked.  But, it's been made clear that we are not supposed to see other people naked, so, other than nudists, we are uncomfortable having that kind of public knowledge...whether it's about others or ourselves.

Like the clothes that cover us, our lifestyles can only hint at what our socioeconomic level is underneath.  Lots of people use metaphoric belts and girdles to appear more well off than they are and others hide their financial figure in frugal but comfortable mu-mus.   Perhaps its this uncertainty about what's really underneath that makes sharing financial data so tacky.  Because it is, you know.

I have no idea how much money my parents made when I was growing up.  Actually, I still don't know.  In fact, I don't know a single other person's salary besides our own.  For an oversharer like myself, it's been one of those areas of my life where I have had to be trained to be more mysterious and general instead of giving away specifics.  It's taken awhile but now I can honestly announce that I'm every bit as uncomfortable sharing that part of my life as the next person.

Are you curious about other people's finances?  Do you wish we, as a society, were more transparent or do you like keeping it private?   Should I switch to a different bank?

Memories....Escape the Corners of My Mind

Who is this girl?

The one who sent a friend request on Facebook?

When the notification came that so and so wanted to be friends with me, I figured it was one of those errant mistakes.  Like, she mistook my Capital High for another.  I figure there's got to be at least fifty high schools with that name, right?

For some reason (I like to think because I'm tender hearted and outright rejecting her offer seemed cruel), I neither accepted nor declined.  Instead, I waited.

Sure enough, she is adding friends and they are people I know.  People from high school.  Today, I dug out the old Class of '93 Yearbook to see if I could find any mention of her.

None.

My guess is that she went to school with my class at some point but did not graduate with us.

In any case, I can't place her.  I have no memories of this girl.  Even more troubling, as I looked through the yearbook, was how many other students I shared hallway and classroom space for four years that look equally foreign.

I've noticed it before.  How names escape me.  In a conversation with someone awhile back, I could only remember two of my high school English teachers:  one teaching my Freshman year and the other my Senior year (who I only remember because she was really, really bad.  Horrible, really).

I can't remember the last names of most of my roommates at BYU.  My sophomore year?  I can't even remember their first names.

I can't remember the name of the building next to the testing center at BYU.  The one where the artists hung out.  It's been bugging me for weeks.  That and the name of the Engineering Building.

I can't remember the names of some of the boys I dated before Jay.  Even ones I kissed.

I can't remember the names of several of the women who I served with in Primary presidencies.     Women who I spent a lot of time with and remember being pretty close to at the time.  How's that for bonding?

It goes on, but it's embarrassing.  What is wrong with me?

Do I not care enough to remember or is my memory that bad?  Do I need to be doing more Sudoku or eating more fish?  Taking Ginko Baloba?  Is that its name?  See?  I can't even remember that.

I don't know how the people with 300-plus friends on Facebook do it.  Keep track of them all, I mean.  What is the point of having experiences or making friends if you can't remember them?

Blogging helps.  I look back at posts and remember.  But, as these September snippets have taught me, it's much more interesting to write about a part of your day instead of it whole.  So, twenty-three and a half hours of each day might just become lost to me.   At least now I'll be able to look back and remember the time that I realized I can't remember anything.

Poetic.  Almost.

Book Review - Mockingjay

My mother once told me that sometimes, she thinks my book reviews are a little too detailed.  As in I give away the plot.  Ever since that conversation, I've been more conscious about writing more generally, leaving out details that may spoil it for others who haven't read it yet.

I will not be doing that here.

In case that didn't make sense, let me put it another way.

*****SPOILER ALERT******SPOILER ALERT******SPOILER ALERT******

O.K. Then.

So, two years of Katniss's life have passed in two days for me.  I think the timing differences affected my reaction, but I'm not certain.  I know what I wanted to have happen didn't happen and I'm surprisingly satisfied.

Katniss is one messed up chick.

She should be!  Who would be normal after everything she's been through in two days I mean two years!   First, the boy she thought she was pretending to love becomes a Capitol hostage and is clearly being tortured and she realizes that she loves him!  She had glimpses into this self awareness before, but now that he's not there to depend upon, now that she might never see him or touch him or be loved by him, well...she can't be the girl on fire, the Mockingjay, the leader of the rebel cause without him.  She has nothing to give.

And Gale knows it.  Gale, who should have been so much better developed in this book because Peeta was out of the picture for most of it and Gale and Katniss had time and opportunity and instead, Collins gave me detailed descriptions of mashed turnips and propaganda ads.   I don't know why she couldn't allow Gale to react - to get mad or jealous or passionate or funny or...anything.  He was just (speaking in a robot voice) "I am Gale.  I love Katniss (though won't ever do anything about it).  I am a hunter and a fighter."  Blah.   He was much more excited about his communicuff than he ever seemed to be about Katniss.  The author kept writing about how deeply Katniss felt about Gale and how deeply Gale felt about Katniss without ever really giving them opportunities in the plot to show it.  And if she did, like when Gale was tortured (although I think that was in the other book but they are all running together in my mind so bear with me, people!), she dissolved any tension she created as soon as I turned the next page.  Scene over.  Conversation over.  On to describing another costume or meal in full and lengthy detail.   I had high hopes of being tormented by who to choose but there was no question about who Katniss should be with.  Well..that's not exactly true.  When Peeta was totally insane and trying to kill Katniss because he had been programmed to, Gale did look like the better choice.  But the totally boring, safe better choice.

Now that I've gotten past the bizarre love story, which actually does have depth if you think about why she eventually chose Peeta (she wants to be with someone who can help her remember there is good in the world), I'll move on to what really impressed me with this book.

It's scary.  And confusing.  And dark and horrible and violent and bloody and ugly.

Just like war.

I couldn't believe some of the stuff I was reading.  Peeta tortured?  Blowing up hospitals?  Shooting strangers in the heart to keep your cover?  Bombing children with parachutes that they'd come to rely on as being helpful?

Not nice.  Not fair.  Not clean.

It's disturbing and I totally get that it's almost too disturbing.  We're not really used to authors introducing us to likable characters who have survived unthinkable government abuse, who stand in their hospital gown, showing off their underwear and sarcastically saying, "You don't want some of this?" who finally gets to marry the love of his life, and then kill them off in a horrible manner.   Inconsequential characters who mean nothing, yes, but not ones so young, beautiful and deserving of a long-overdue bit of happiness.

More than that,  the adults are totally untrustworthy.  Katniss's mother, who the author thankfully kept true to herself by abandoning her highly troubled and disfigured daughter, because her other daughter had died and she just couldn't handle it.   Haymitch, who returns to his alcoholism the moment he can.  President Snow, who totally reminded me of Lord Voldemort.  Probably all the mentioning of his  snake-eyes and how he smelled like blood.  President Coin, who never seemed to understand what the rebels were fighting for and wanted power more than change.   I'm not sure Young Adult fiction needs to paint all adults as totally selfish and calculating, but it's fair to represent some that way.

It wasn't a perfect book.  The ending was confusing and I had a really difficult time visualizing the assault on the city.  Each time a "pod" was mentioned, I pictured one of those heavy boxes they put in front of houses that are getting built or remodeled.  I don't know why, but that was in my head so when the author said, "pod" this or "pod" that, and black ooze was coming out, or nets or crazy white reptilian mutts, they were coming out of this totally out-of-place metal box.  It was very disorientating.  I knew I was lost, so never went back to find the original description, but I have no idea how they got to the Capitol.  One minute, they were shooting a commercial and then it was non-stop survival mode action until Katniss witnessed her sister get blown up and literally felt herself on fire.

I don't think she could have ended it differently and remained honest to her original premise - that there are far worse things than death.  Because of the set-up of the story, writing it in a trilogy format, she had to escalate the conflict.  A violent, but contained, story of killing and death would no longer do.  What were they all doing there and for what reason?  The anarchy, distrust, and flat-out fear of having no control over your own safety has to be messy.  And Collins made it so very messy.

I'm not sure there needed to be an epilogue.  It was nice to know that Katniss and Peeta had a future.  It was refreshing to see that life was not perfectly swell now that the nasty war was behind them.  They struggled and coped and fought for happiness as best they could.  But, in my opinion, that's the real sunset.  So, reading about it, I felt like saying, "Tell me something I don't know."  I would have been angry had the epilogue been written any differently.

I think that's about it.  Another book to remind me that should the world ever become this horrible, I really, really just want to go out with the initial bang.   I worry I'm not a survivor at all.  I don't think I could do these things.  Any of it.  Eat squirrel or fight to the death on live TV or take down an evil president.

But, maybe I could.  I'm not saying I could be Katniss.  But, maybe I could be that tiger lady and hide the really brave people.  All I'd have to learn to do is eat raw meat and purr.  Maybe.

Book Review - Catching Fire

Best thing about reading any kind of "ology" after they've all been out for awhile instead of as they are released is not having to wait to read the next book.

I finished Hunger Games Friday morning. As soon as I finished, I cleaned the kitchen's breakfast mess, swept the floor underneath the table, took Henry to speech and then opened up Catching Fire. With some off and on reading throughout the day, I managed to turn the last page close to midnight.

Anytime an author can get a reader to read two of her books in less than twenty-four hours, she is doing something right. Without a doubt, she has created a fascinating world of survival and intrigue and although I found myself a little more irritated with predictable characters and the necessary repetition of basic plot lines to get obtuse or forgetful readers up to speed, I kept turning the page. What in the world is going to happen?

I thought for awhile that Collins would be forced to abandon her Hunger Games premise. After all, this was Katniss's story and Katniss had survived the games. What now? Oh...that.

I was disappointed in a plot twist whose kink didn't take the story to a new place but, instead, returned it to an old one. While I cared because I was invested, I was a little tired of the game. It may have been because I had just left the games hours earlier, instead of the year both the book and real-life intended, but my heart wasn't as into it. The description of the arena didn't fit inside my head as easily, with the clock format and hourly disasters in pie shaped areas hard to picture. Like Katniss, I kept trying to see it in a bird's eye view, which removed me from the setting. I couldn't get in there, on the Island or in the jungle like I did with the cave and trees and lake in the first book.

However, I loved getting to know Panem better. Where are these other districts and who are the people who live in them? How will a rebellion ever occur if they have no means of communication? Are they going to risk everything to escape their oppressive conditions?

Once again, Collins asks her readers to think about what might be worse than death. Obedience to a government who can change the rules on a whim? Torture? Poverty? Life without your loved ones? Although it lacks the wonderful plot pacing that I so enjoyed in the first book, and the growth and motivation from most of the main characters seemed stunted, Catching Fire is a solid sequel in an interesting series.

Mockingjay review tomorrow, me thinks.

Book Review - Hunger Games

I may just be the last reader I know to read this book.  I've been aware of them for awhile, even buying the first two books of the series for my nephew's birthday last year, but once I heard that each installment ends in a cliff-hanger and the final book was coming out this summer, I decided to wait until I could have instant gratification instead of waiting months and months for a resolution.

It's a dangerous thing, waiting, when the world seems caught up in doing something.  Of course, there is the natural anxiety that comes when you feel like you're being left behind or not "in the know" but, even worse, there is always a risk of accidentally learning how the book ends when a book is as popular as this one is.  Because that would have turned me off from reading these books forever, I diligently avoided reading any reviews of this book, or any of the sequels.

All I knew was that this was a book about teenagers killing other teenagers for sport and survival.  Huh.  That description did not help me understand the mania surrounding this book.  O.K.  Perhaps that dystopian angle would appeal to its intended audience, teenagers, but why so many adult females seemed equally enamored was the real head scratcher.

I get it now.  We grown-ups love a good love triangle.  And by good, I mean where two worthy and likable males want the same female.  I'm not sure we'd be nearly as interested if one of the guys was a cad or two girls were after the same guy, because those are not nearly as enjoyable fantasies.  But the oh-I-just-can't-decide-between-these-two-because-I-like-them-both-and-I-don't-want-to-hurt-anyone-and-they are-equally-attractive-and-devoted dilemma?  Yeah...I'll take that conflict.

I'm making it sound like Twilight, which isn't fair.  It is so much better than Twilight.  The romantic subplot, while present, is not the story's focus What is, is a disturbing and depressing look at what fear induces good people to do and how death might not be the worst thing a young person will face in his or her life.  Katniss Everdeen, the strong and stoic sixteen year-old girl who volunteers to take her twelve year-old sister's place as District Twelve's tribute in the annual Hunger Games, realizes this very thing as dying would be a lot easier than illegally hunting in her district's nearby woods to feed her family or taking a young girl's life to preserve her own or defying a government with the power to take away her family's fragile sense of security.

Although it has violent themes, none of the violence seems gratuitous.  In fact, I was surprised by how little it disturbed me.  Maybe it was the science fiction and distant future feel that removed my personal horror, but I thought the book worked  both as entertaining story-telling as well as one containing an important message.

We, the people.  We, the people.  When our leaders stop being part of the "we" and become the "them" the authority they hold shifts from being given to being taken.   Panem, the futuristic society consisting of the all-powerful Capitol surrounded by thirteen isolated and subservient districts, is an us vs. them model.  What is protection and what is tyranny?  What is rebellion and what is doing the right thing?   I enjoy a book that is not afraid of throwing around a little bit of moral weight.  As long, I suppose, as I approve of what is being tossed around.

I enjoyed this and think it deserves every bit of hype it has received. (I also started this on Friday so it's counting as my daily snippet:))

Hello?

If I understand this whole parenting thing correctly, part of our job as the big people in the group is to prepare the little people to one day possess the skills they need to live successfully on their own. Circumstances, of course, vary, but on the whole, this is our goal.

Now, I'm aware that technology has changed life drastically since I was one of those little people, as it has in generations past. For instance, I was never taught how to pluck feathers from a dead chicken and buy my boneless, skinless chicken breasts in a neatly wrapped package at a grocery store. Nor was I ever shown how to weave a rug. Instead, I've got my eye on a pretty brown and blue one in the Pottery Barn catalog. But both were, at one time in history, considered important in terms of quality of life.

While I've already seen its use and abilities change drastically in the years I've been on this planet, I think the telephone, in one form or another, will stick around for the foreseeable future. If so, I need to step up my parenting effort as I was reminded, while listening to a choppy phone conversation, that my eldest son sadly lacks these vital communication skills.

This is not news. I've listened to his end of the conversation before when his dad or grandparents call and try to speak to him via the phone. Mostly what I hear is a whole lot of silence with the occasional "Yes" or "No." I've even been the poor soul on the other end of the line who has to pull conversation out of him like a stubborn weed.   But, I guess I thought it would be different if he was talking to a friend.

We were driving to the cross-town middle school football game (yes.  We are a football game going family, I guess) when my cell phone rang.  The caller ID alerted me to who was calling and I answered assuming I'd be speaking with Seth's friend's mother, who has been trying unsuccessfully to get our sons together for months (they are both new students at the same elementary school and have managed to become friends without our helpful interference, so my flakiness has not hurt Seth).  Instead, I heard a boy awkwardly trying to ask if he could speak to Seth.  I smiled at his nervous formality as I passed the phone to the back seat of the minivan and listened to...well....almost nothing.

My eyes looked in the rear view mirror to see what Seth was doing to prevent him from using his voice but I saw nothing.  Then I heard, "Yes"  followed by another yes and then an "I don't think so."

Not long after he said that, he passed the phone back to me and I listened for the boy's mother's voice to see if we could act as interpreters for our phone-challenged children but the line was dead.

"What did Luke want, Seth?" I asked.

"He wanted to know where we were sitting at the football game so he could find me."

"I didn't hear you answer that question.  What did he ask you?"

Seth responded, "He asked if we were still going to the football game and when I told him yes, he said he would be there too and he'd come find me but I told him that I didn't know where we would be sitting."

"Um..I never heard you say that," I challenged.

"Well...."

Who knows what was said but he didn't say hello, he didn't say good-bye, and he arrived at the football game without any plans to meet his friend.  Luckily, as soon as we arrived, the boys found each other and spent the rest of the evening talking and laughing and ignoring the football game altogether.

Which proves that they do know how to talk to each other.  Just not if they are holding a little box next to their ears.

Our home phone rarely rings these days with most people who need to get a hold of either Jay or me calling our cell phones.  I've never even thought about teaching my boys phone etiquette before because if I'm home, I answer it, and if I'm not, I specifically tell them not to.  Maybe it's a lost art anyways, what with all the texting and chatting that seems the preferred mode of communication these days.  But, they still need to know how to talk on the phone, right?

Going To Battle (and Hoping It's Worth It)

A few years ago, I went to a fireside given by some famous parents, the Eyres.  They had a lot of good advice about raising successful and happy kids but one thing Richard Eyre said that evening that has stood out in my memory was to pick your battles with your children very carefully and the ones you decide to fight, make sure you win.

Much advice was given about what matters and what doesn't in the grand scheme of things, and when all is said and done, most of the things parents choose to fight with their kids about don't matter nearly as much as we think they do.

I do not consider myself a tyrant. I let a messy room slide, rarely balk when I discover that one of my boys has helped himself to a snack (unless they eat it in their rooms or in the basement and then I go nutso) and make it a point not to over schedule them so they have plenty of time to play together as brothers and read at night.  They choose what to wear each day (even if it's the parks and rec game jersey....again (and because Jay was a basketball coach, we have four of them)), wear their hair they way they want it (they don't care) and in general, are a happy, agency-enjoying lot.

Some of the things I do insist on are:


Good grades.  Both Seth and Sam are exceptionally bright and they both know their father and I expect their grades to reflect their abilities.

Respect for others.  This includes being on time for things, following the rules, using good language and playing fairly with their peers.

Church attendance.  Luckily, this isn't something we've ever had to battle about.

Learning to play the piano.



Yup.  I'm that mom that won't let her kids quit the piano.  I've known too many individuals who either quit piano themselves when they reached the awkward I'm-not-good-yet-but-it's-getting-harder-and-less-fun-so-I'm-not-going-to-do-it-anymore stage or let their child quite when they got to the same stage. And they all seem sad about it.  Obviously, it's the kind of activity that is hard to stick with, which is why I've decided to take away the option.

I made it clear with Seth and Sam from the get-go that learning to play the piano well is a long-term goal. As soon as we were settled and found a teacher, they understood that this was something they were going to do until they graduated from high school. Like school, it was going to be a part of their lives in good times and in bad. They could thank me later.

I knew I'd need a stiff upper lip during the tumultuous middle school years, a period of life I like to call the dark ages and know from experience about needing to have a personal rage against the piano machine. Oh...I hated it. I wanted to quit so, so badly. And then, without fanfare or warning, it got fun again. I'm so grateful that my parents wouldn't let me quit. That being said, I never expected the battle with Seth to begin so early. He just started a little more than a year and a half ago and has so much natural talent and ability. He learned the beginner stuff quickly and eagerly but now he's reached "the stage."

His music is more challenging and not as much fun for him to play. His teacher is very talented as well as patient, and believes he can develop into a fine pianist. I know that too. He's got a math-understanding mind and the theory behind the intervals, chords and harmonies make sense to him. But, the songs he's been assigned lately take longer to learn and his technique and sight reading skills make the learning slow and hard.

So, that stiff upper lip? It's harder to keep than I thought it would be. I hate that he's miserable and I hate being the kind of mom that makes him do something that makes him miserable, but...I still think I'm right. I think it's important to stick with something, even if it's hard. Not everything. He doesn't have to stick with football or choir or origami folding or whatever he wants to try. (He has never folded origami. I was just trying to be inclusive). Just piano.

Today's lesson was better than most in recent memory.  He passed off Schumann's Merry Farmer (hallelujah!) and admitted to liking his spooky recital song.  It gave me a glimmer of hope.  But, I still know I'm going to have to wear the armor again tomorrow when its time to practice.  It's starting to get chinks.

Do you have a thing you fight for?  Is it the piano?  Is it a battle worth fighting for?

Night and Day

It's 3:15 pm as I step out my front door.  I've learned after one necessary and painful sprint down the .15 mile length of my driveway in flip flops, that it's best if I give myself five minutes to reach the road (a parent or someone from the approved list has to physically take Henry out of his booster seat for him to get off the bus.  Sam and Seth cannot do it.  If no one is there, he stays on the bus and goes to the high school with the bus driver for his next route).  I wait for a few minutes but soon see the familiar yellow bus rumble over the hill.

Not very long ago, 3:15 pm felt a whole lot different.  It was the end of the day instead of the beginning.  Things were winding down instead of just getting started.  I anticipated night when I could get everyone in bed and either enjoy some alone time with Jay or get out of the house for a few hours of  "me" time.

But life has changed.  Now, it's only after school and evening that I get to be with my children.  It's these very hours I used to hoard for myself in order to recharge that I now find myself possessively protecting for my family.  I still enjoy things like book club, and the idea of girls night out, but now I wish all those things could convert to a daytime schedule, when I'm free and it doesn't interrupt the flow of my now jam-packed afternoon and evenings.  It's quite opposite of how things used to be.  Like night and day.

First order of business:  remind Seth where his backpack does and does not belong.  

Body Parts

Without The Killers, Kelly Clarkston, or Taio Cruz jangling in my ears, or my Garmin watch on my wrist to keep me focused on what mile per hour I could maintain, I felt calm and spontaneous as I headed up the mountain.   My nose filled with the pungent smell of pine needles and my ears smiled at the crunching of the rocks and twigs beneath my feet.  My eyes kept focused on the uneven path ahead of me and my mouth was forced open to get my lungs the oxygen they needed from being in less than ideal shape.



After an hour and ten minutes of pushing my hips, legs and heart past the point of being comfortable, I reached the summit.  My lips tasted salty with sweat and my tongue was cursing its owner for forgetting to bring water.  Tired but satisfied, I cautiously lowered myself onto my bottom to enjoy the view of the San Juans.




Before I could get cool, I started back down.  My back was wet from wearing my camera bag and my feet protested a little from being teased by a false finish.  My steady downward stepping allowed my brain to wander from my calling, my friends, my goals, my house, my children, my priorities and what would eventually fill my stomach after eating lunch.  I passed several other hikers who were ascending in their cool and breezy tank tops and shorts and wondered what possessed me to cover my arms with long sleeves and legs with fleece drawstring pants.




Nearing the bottom, I noticed my unnaturally swollen fingers and alternatively squeezed and opened my hands to reduce the pressure.  By this time, the gum I had been chewing for almost two hours was tasteless and thick and my jaw ached from overuse.  I spit it out aways off of the trail and felt the unpleasant thick slime on my teeth.  While certainly not as hard on the cardiovascular system as going up, my knees and thighs were convinced that going downhill was every bit as hard.  I had hiked six miles and my body was tired.

The Perfect Pot Roast

Like many Mormons, I enjoy a good Sunday roast.  Something about putting it in the oven, leaving for three hours (or more) and coming home to a meal that's nearly ready is very appealing.

It took many years but I can finally say that I make a really great roast.  It's pull apart tender, flavorful and, best of all, really, really easy.   Here's how I do it:

First, I always buy a chuck roast.  I used to buy a rump roast because it was a leaner and more aesthetically pleasing cut of meat, in my opinion, but a chuck roast, with the additional fat, is what makes it tender and keeps it from getting dry.

Three pounds is usually more than plenty for my family of five (and every single one of us likes our meat), with  enough left overs to use for another meal, but I buy a larger roast if I'm having company, like we did today.  Both Jay and I feel strongly that no guest should leave hungry, so we ensure a bit of gluttony by having lots of side dishes and large portion of main dishes.  Today, I used a four and a half pound chuck roast for us and my sister-in-law, Patty and her two teenage children (plus, we made up a plate for her busy husband to eat when he finally gets home after all of his church business).  We still had leftovers.  

I start by pouring a couple of tablespoons of oil into a stock pot.  When the oil is hot enough to get angry at a sprinkling of water, I lower the roast into the pan and salt and pepper the exposed raw side.  After a minute or two, I use a large fork to turn the roast over to the other side and add some more salt and pepper to the now brown side.

Next, I throw in a bay leaf, chunks of red onion, carrots and sprinkle rosemary on top.  I usually use the dry herb, but I think fresh would taste great too.  It makes it really aromatic.  Then, I sprinkle a little bit of minced onion and garlic powder and pour 1/2 C of red cooking wine on top of it all.

Before I put the lid on the stockpot, I let the cooking wine boil for a bit to reduce.  After a minute of rapid boiling, I put the lid on and put it into a pre-heated to three hundred degrees for three hours.  If you're going to be gone longer than three hours, like we were today, I turned the oven down to 285.  My four and a half pound roast cooked for almost five hours at 285 and it was perfect.  Tender, juicy and flavorful.

I should have taken a picture but I didn't know dinner was going to be the snippet of the day.  So...use your imagination.

Here's the recipe when you just need a quick look.

3-4 lb chuck roast
1 red onion
3 C baby carrots
1 bay leaf
1-2 Tbs rosemary
1 Tbs minced onion
1 tsp garlic powder
1/2 C red cooking wine

Brown chuck roast on both side with salt and pepper to taste.  Add other ingredients and bring to a boil on stove top for one minute.  Cover and cook at 300 for three hours.

Enjoy!

Therapy

I canceled a date with my husband tonight.

Jay called me from a tractor he was driving to help his dad rake hay and asked if I'd decided which movie I wanted to go see.  I told him I didn't feel like going out.  I think I may have hurt his feelings but I hope not.

While I waited for the oppressive grumpiness that has weighted me down all day to lift now that I didn't even need to brush my teeth, I was surprised that I felt no better.  In fact, I felt a little bit worse - I was alone and claustrophobic at the same time.

Passing over Captain Corelli's Mandolin, which has yet to inspire me, I picked up a paperback entitled Ride the Wind by Lucia St. Clair Robson and read for hours.  Suddenly, I was transported to the eighteen-hundreds in Texas with a nine year-old girl who just witnessed a grisly attack on her grandfather's fort by a large group of Indian Warriors.  I was next to her as she was carted off with ropes tied around her neck and limbs to some unknown place.  I felt the understanding she felt as her terror waned and she began to love her new Indian family.  I was no longer quite so alone nor nearly as claustrophobic.  I had traveled to a place I have never been and had made all sorts of new acquaintances.

I don't think reading about life should ever replace living life, but tonight, it was cheap therapy.  I can't wait to finish my book.

The Show Must Go On....I Guess

As soon as the two helmets crashed into each other, I put my hands over my mouth in horror.  With a clear view of the collision I suspected one, if not both, of the football players would be injured.  Surprisingly, no flags were thrown and after a few seconds, the victim of the brutal tackle tenderly stood up.

Then he crumpled back down to the ground.

His mother ran down the stairs of the bleacher, ducked under the railing and was soon on the field, but the protective shield of medical personnel kept her from touching her son.  She was forced to stand back and wait for movement with the rest of us.  A hush fell over all in attendance as each football team took to their knees.  The cheerleaders sat subdued along the sidelines and a stretcher was wheeled out from the nearby ambulance.

At least ten minutes passed in silence.  The stands were so quiet that we could hear the coach from the opposing team shouting instructions to his team.  This act of coaching while a young boy was being carefully treated for a possible spine injury angered some of the fans on our side and a man yelled from the bleachers, "Shut Up, Coach!"

When the injured boy was safely strapped down, he was slowly wheeled off of the field and into the back of the ambulance.  The stadium erupted with applause, a gesture I find sweet and endearing most of the time, but in this case, the image of that boy falling back down to the ground was still in my head and the sound usually reserved for cheering felt inappropriate.

Way to go! You are on your way to the hospital!

Yay!  You may never play football again!

Woot woot!  Your young life might never be the same!

I realize the clapping meant, "We support you." Still, I thought about his family, who followed their son and brother's rolling gurney out, and their worries.   They had come to a high school football game to see their loved one play.  While a devastating injury is every parent's worst nightmare as they watch their son or daughter play a sport, I imagine no one left the house tonight with thoughts of spending the evening waiting for the results of an MRI.

Even more strange than the clapping was how quickly the game resumed.  The doors of the ambulance hadn't even closed before the opposing teams were once more facing each other on the line of scrimmage.   After all, the show must go on.  It always does.

Nine years ago, Alan Jackson asked, "Where were you when the world stopped turning, on that September day?"  I was sitting in the living room of my small Denver apartment folding laundry while a very young Seth played nearby.  For the rest of the day, I sat on my couch and cried, glued to the images of airplanes crashing into the World Trade Center towers as they were shown over and over again on the television.  Occasionally, Seth would point to my tears and say, "Ouch."   It was an ouch.  And the world never stopped turning.

Every day, every minute, every second, somebody needs the world to stop spinning or a football game to stop playing.  It doesn't seem fair that our tragedies, whether great or small, don't shut life down.  My fairness meter thought it best to wait until the ambulance had left and the family was out of ear shot, or maybe until word had come back about the young boy's condition to resume play.  But there were a hundred other boys with their family and friends in attendance, who came to play and who did not get hurt.  Their stage was still that football field and the lines they had rehearsed for their scenes still relevant.

Likewise, there are millions and billions of people who do not live in New York City or who did not just get divorced or miscarry or survive an airplane crash with burns all over their body.   Life resumes.  We might get a ten minute pause or even some applause as we courageously exit the stage, but the show always, always goes on.

Today, While The Sun Shines

Sam is playing on his new soccer team.  He is so naturally athletic and it is a joy to watch him sprint up and down the field, dribbling the soccer ball with more enthusiasm than skill.  Mostly, he is always, always earnest.  My heart oozes with love for him.

Seth and I toss a football to each other on the side of the playground.  Over and over again, he sprints ahead of me, running some imaginary play route while I attempt to throw it hard enough to reach him.  Most of the time he catches the ball.  His favorite move involves dropping to his knees to make the catch and I think about lecturing him about holes in his pants, but it just feels good to be enjoying each other's company and not engaged in some mother-son battle about school work/piano practice/clothes on the floor/reading too late.  I ask him if he needs a break from running but he smiles and says he's fine.  I am too.

Henry calls my name every so often from which ever play structure he is currently on.  He's made a few friends who all enjoy crawling through the blue tunnel and peeking out through the plastic holes.  I adore his little body and small nose that hold up his fashionable black glasses.  I think he may just be the cutest little boy on earth.

It is four thirty and the sun is shining but with less vitality.  Fall is around the corner and I can't help but smile with pleasure.

Getting Comfortable

Sinus headaches and blogging daily do not mix.  For the past three days, I've been minimizing any unnecessary head movement and, while you wouldn't imagine that statement would have anything to do with typing on a keyboard, I do tend to nod along while I write.  It is comforting to know that I agree with myself.

Sadly, the pressure in my head denied me the opportunity to write about how my unpreparedness rocked the singing time house on Sunday.  Or how I swore it took me thirteen seconds to get up on one ski on labor day but my friend assures me it only took four.  One of us was not using the one-mississippi method when counting (O.K. It was probably me but in my defense, I had water hitting my face at an increasing rate which, knowing what you know about the state of my poor head, may have skewed my perspective).  And if you DO use the one-mississippi method....four seconds is pretty long to have your face dragging through a lake.

Yesterday's snippet is too good to pass us, however, so while I am really tempted to write about my discomfort walking through the Rec Center locker room this morning (I swear I am not a prude but would it kill some women to put on a shirt, or at least a bra, while blow drying their hair in a public place??), I invite you to journey with me to the inside of a quaint church on a coolish late-summer Tuesday evening.

It's a setting that causes my inner-voice to groan.  Almost a hundred relative strangers.  People who I met the week before whose names I can't remember after they smugly remember mine.  Wondering if I should sit in the same place as the week before or if I should venture out and meet more people whose names I will not remember the following week.

My jitters settle as the evening begins.  No longer left to my own devices, I am now expected to follow directions -- a much more comfortable place for my newbie self to be.  Comfortable, that is, until I remember the first item of business.

I turn to my right and stare at the back of a tall, thin woman with dark curly hair.  Even though I'm not sure who she is, I find myself touching her bony shoulders, wondering as I search for a soft piece of flesh for my thumb to press, if I'm hurting her.  She doesn't yelp in pain, so I continue, but ever so gently.

Meanwhile, my own shoulders are being treated like a virgin piece of dough that a baker intends to become her pièce de résistance.  I brace myself as hands work their way up my neck, across my upper back, along my arms and even along my bra line.  I tense up as the only person I'm accustomed to having access to that part of my back happened to marry me nearly fourteen years ago, but my reaction only causes the hands to knead with that much more insistence.

I'm not sure massages are ever meant to be competitive, but I couldn't help but compare my own timid attempts to my masseuse, so I stepped up my game a bit.  Pulling out some of my signature moves, I started with piano fingers along the nape of her neck and climaxed with some knuckle rolls on the top of her still very angular shoulders.

That earned me a satisfied Thank-You.

The stranger touching was not yet finished, however.  In order to compensate for the givers-but-not-receivers at the end of each row, we were instructed to turn one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and begin again.

If you're good at Geometry, you've probably figured out that I was now facing magic-hands herself (which was comforting as my first week had me standing next to a sixty (or younger if he hadn't aged well) year-old man with a long grey pony-tail).  As I tried to balance what I thought was appropriate I-barely-know-you-but-you've-touched-my-bra shoulder rubbing with what this at least seventy year-old woman seemed to prefer, I noticed that bony-shoulders also had bony fingers.  And let me tell you...bony fingers and shoulder rubbing are perfect compliments to each other.  So nice.

And yet, so, so wrong.

Next on the agenda? Caveman shouting and pretend rock throwing.

Just another fun warm-up at choir!

(I am, actually, having a very good time.  I love the music we are singing and while I think her warm-ups are ridiculous and unnecessary, our conductor is a very capable person).

Book Review - Someone Knows My Name

It wasn't until I was discussing what I was reading with someone else that I learned that the title of this book varies depending on where it is published.  In the United States (and I believe Australia and New Zealand) it is called Someone Knows My Name.  In Canada, the book is known as The Book of Negroes.   As soon as I had this information, I was curious as to the why Lawrence Hill used two different titles as well as discovering which title was a better name for the book.

Early on in my reading, Someone Knows My Name was the clear front runner.  As Aminata Diallo describes being stolen from her parents at the tender age of eleven, and marched with others from her homeland to the coast of Africa as part of the slave trade, she writes about hearing someone she had befriended on the journey exclaim upon seeing her upon the slave ship how good it felt to be see "someone who knows my name."  The inhumanity of slavery is often portrayed through beatings, branding, and rape but to thoughtfully include a moment when a man laments the theft of his identity is a powerful lesson that the cruelty of slavery is not limited to physical abuse.   This is something Aminiata realizes at a very early age and eventually has to teach to powerful men and women from England as an old woman.

The name Book of Negroes doesn't surface until after Aminata leaves her first experience as a slave in South Carolina and New York to join a group of men and women heading to Nova Scotia, Canada, who have earned their "freedom" by serving behind British lines during the Revolutionary War.  The Book of Negroes is an actual historical document, of which copies can be seen in several libraries in both the US and Canada, listing the names, descriptions and backgrounds of those former slaves who traveled to Canada with the promise of land and better opportunities.  Because Aminata was noticed by several people throughout her life as being highly intelligent, she had learned to read and write and, in the novel (not in actual history), was asked to work as a scribe to create The Book of Negroes.  As she did this, and listened to the various stories of those who, like her, longed for freedom, she mentioned how enlightening it was to understand that her story was no more horrific nor unusual than anyone elses.  Each and every slave's story was extraordinary in how they became a slave to how they found themselves there, in New York, seeking a better existence.  At this point, The Book of Negroes title surged ahead of its competitor.

The story continues on, however.  Not really plot driven, unless you count Aminata's quest for freedom a plot, in which case there is never really a central conflict or climax, but several repeated throughout the novel, the real potency of Someone Knows My Name is its believability.  I believed each page of the book.  I loved Aminata.  Not because she was perfect but because she felt real.  By some standards, her experience as a slave was not nearly as terrible as others due to the fact that her ability to read and write afforded her opportunities and experiences, not to mention respect from both the white and black communities, that most would never have.  But Aminata's own grace and eloquence highlighted why there is no such thing as above-average bondage.

In the end, Someone Knows My Name wins out because this is an individual story about what it means to be human.  With its historical depth, remarkable characterization and significant moral weight, this is a book I consider a benefit to literature.  I'm certainly glad to have read it.

Five For Friday - Snippet Style

1.  It was a rough night last night.  I woke up around 11:45 to the sound of Jay arranging a camping pad on the floor of our bedroom to sleep on.  Figuring that he must be so cold and mad at me for needing a window open at night that he couldn't even stand to share a bed with me, I tossed and turned (both from fitfulness and because I got up and closed the window and I was hot!) all night.  I didn't say a word to him, though, because that's how I respond when I think someone is upset with me.  I completely back off.  Yeah...pretty effective communication skills.  :)  Turns out, he was just really uncomfortable and was desperate to try a more solid sleeping surface to see if it might help him fall asleep.  Apparently, my super low sleep number affects his side of the bed and he feels like he's constantly keeping himself from sliding down onto my side.  I'm glad he wasn't mad at me, but I've been wondering all day if the hassle of sleeping with someone with totally different needs and preferences is worth the trouble?  And, please understand, by sleeping, I mean shutting our eyes and drifting off into la la land.  Jay used to joke about getting separate rooms and it always hurt my feelings and he'd say he was just joking, but now I am wondering if he actually was joking and if he was on to something.  We are just so at odds when it comes to sleeping comfortably.  I need a cool room - he sleeps better warm.  I prefer a soft, soft bed and he needs it firm.  I can't sleep with any lights on and he frequently dozes off with all the lights on.  I know compromise is a necessary tool for marriage, but does it carry over to sleep?  Is it the worst thing in the world to have separate beds or...dare I say it....separate rooms?  I know it's not ideal, but is it bad?


2.  Fridays, I get Henry at home all day and it's really enjoyable to have that one on one time together.  Today, we took his big boy bike on the river trail.  I thought after watching him ride around on the driveway that we'd make a great team and he's peddle his miniature 12 inch wheels about as fast as I could speed walk.  I was right. We managed together for a whole six minutes before he thought it was too hard and wanted to go home.  I want him to love riding his bike so we followed his lead and walked back to the car where he promptly told me he wanted to keep riding.  But, I was feeling all Katy Perry with his hot and his cold, his yes and his no and said that we were done.



3. I often read about the apparent universal ability of women to multi-task.  Certainly, it seems most women I talk to have an innate ability to accomplish more than one thing at a time but I fear I missed my dose of do-two-things-at-once juice when it was being handed out.   I am particularly bad at talking on the phone and getting anything done.  For this reason, if I am trying to get something done, I won't pick up my phone.  Vice versa, if I do pick up my phone, any and all progress halts.  Nearly all of my long-distance friends have given up on calling me thanks to my poor phone skills, but my sisters and my mother still make a consistent effort.  Wanting to stay in the loop but hoping to make better use of my time, I headed into Office Depot today to get a headset. I was so excited to wear my new apparatus but as soon as I took it out of the box and tried to use it, I realized none of my cordless phones have a stereo jack for the headphones to connect.  Even more disappointing, the plug doesn't fit my cell phone.   I suppose I need to give Bluetooth another try.  Whenever I wear one, I swear I can actually feel a tumor growing in my brain.

4.  I don't think men should reveal any part of their thigh when wearing shorts. When I dropped Seth off at football tonight, I saw a dad sitting on a nearby rock watching the practice and saw more than I wanted to.  Nothing indecent, unless you consider hairy thighs indecent, which I do.   I think it's always bothered me in the same way pairing white sneakers with jeans does, but I really firmed up my opinion after watching Robert week after week on this last season of SYTYCD.  Every week it seemed, Robert would come out to dance his solo in a tank top (another no-no, but farther down the list) and short cotton shorts that screamed I-come-with-an-elastic-waistband.  Would it have killed him to sport a pair of cargo shorts like Kent?  I'd concede the point that shorter shorts allow for better movement, but not exposing their thighs didn't seem to hinder any of the other male contestants.  When I think of shorter shorts on men, I always think of the JC Penney catalogs with the middle aged men standing around with one hand in their khaki pocket pointing at something.  I suppose my LDS shorts-to-the-knee mindset prejudices me against anything shorter, but it's not even a modesty issue for me.  I just don't like seeing men's thighs.  Let's keep it to the knees, boys!



O.K. length.



Not OK.

5.  I still haven't used my Bare Minerals make-up because I can't figure out how to open the container.  I was on the phone with my sister this morning and attempting to multi-task (see how handy a head-set would have been in this situation?) and she heard me complain about not understanding how to pull off the tab on the plastic sifter.  It doesn't budge in any direction so I'm not sure how to pull it.  Up?  To the side?  In a clockwise or counter clockwise motion?  The directions only say "pull" and I feel frustrated that my make-up container is smarter than me.  Emily suggested I search for a YouTube video demonstration, but should opening a make-up container require a video demonstration?  I don't think so either.