1000th Post

I think I started this post about two weeks ago.  I had painstakingly found old posts to highlight, old and more recent photos to compare and contrast of our family and had actually started compiling blogging statistics:  number of bloggers I've met, number of bloggers I've kept in touch with after I've met them (shockingly few.  Classic case of "It's not you, it's me."  Not sure why), places we've lived, number of callings, number of documented Henry disasters.  It was all very time consuming but, for a thousandth post, I justified the effort.  It was to be my fait de accompli, if you will.  I figured if I never, ever blogged after this post, I'd at least have a nice summary of Life Is A Spasm Who Flow over the past five plus years.

Well...one errant keystroke, I'm not even sure what it was, deleted the whole thing.  I was mad at technology for awhile but then more disinterested than anything.  Still, I had this "1,000" in the queue and it kept me from blogging about other things.  Nothing was really up to snuff in my head about what a thousandth post should be.

Enough.  A post is a post is a post and this is my thousandth.  Whoop de whoop.  I've decided that a snapshot of what I'm like today - what I think, feel and look like, is good enough.  It's my life and my spasm, after all.  Let it flow:)

The idea came to me this morning as I pulled into a gas station immediately after dropping Seth off at the middle school.  Only yesterday, I vowed that I was going to give up soda again, cold turkey, because I learned early this year that I don't actually like it.  I mean, once you give it up and really lose the cravings, when you do drink it, you realize that it's just a nasty concoction of chemicals, carbonation and artificial tooth staining coloring.  But, the first trimester of this pregnancy had me in serious survival mode and it comforted me.  It doesn't anymore but I'm probably back to being somewhat addicted to the stuff.  Anywho, I was sipping from my stryofoam refill container and waiting at a stoplight and I wanted to write down, today, about how much I love my sons.  Like....I started crying in my car kind of love.

They are so patient with me.  Every morning, they forgive my, "I'm just so,so tired," that always translates into chaos as they help me find stuff for lunches, get breakfast, find clothes, shoes, backpacks, and race to the bus and school.  And I AM tired.  Constantly.  I am best from the hours eight to eleven in the morning and then I start to drag.  So much has been left undone and instead of complaining, they feel bad for me.  I don't like to play favorites, but Sam has been especially helpful.  Several mornings this week, I have heard him in the kitchen before I am even out of bed, gathering lunch stuff on the counter, feeding himself cereal - always fully dressed with his shoes and socks already on.  It makes up for the whirlwind that must form around Henry who hates mornings and declares every morning that he hates school, shoes, lunch, teeth, buses - you get the idea.  Anything he has to do.  I'm sure I could alleviate all of this with some planning and prep in the evening but you should see me in the evenings.  Not pretty.  After chauffeuring boys around non-stop from the hours of 3 until 8, I. am. done.  My back hurts.  For the past three weeks, my throat, head, nose and chest have hurt from the worst cold I have ever had.  It is strictly bath and bed time.  Bubbles required.

So, yes, I really am this whiny nearly all the time.  That is a sad, sad snapshot but real. I fervently hope that pregnancy hormones are to blame, but I have a feeling they simply heighten what emotions are already there. But, so is this deep love for my children.  They are incredibly good and I worry that my little blasts of scary-tired-mother ruin all of the other moments where we are best friends.  For example, yesterday, Seth needed his white shirt ironed for his choir concert.  If you could have seen this shirt....oh my goodness.  Other than taking it straight out of the washer, crumpling it up into a ball and vacuum sealing it, I'm not sure how it could have become so wrinkled.  Time was running short and Henry needed his Kindergarten homework stapled (had to make a book that involved cutting AND gluing.  Mercy.)  and I had just discovered that, at some point, he had ruined our stapler.  I don't know how but it was completely jammed and useless.  Consider the fuse lit.

Then, I go into the laundry room to iron Seth's shirt and discover that my new, expensive Rowenta iron has a crack in the handle.  A crack!  I don't know how it got there.  It was probably something I did but in that moment of needing to iron, being late, jammed stapler - all of a sudden - everything that was wrong came bubbling to the surface.  The broken dishwasher for the past month.  The central vacuum that stopped having suction,  the well pump that had to be fixed so that water would come out of the faucets when I turn them on, the crashed computer, the van whose damn engine light is back on, the flooded basement that still needs to be put back together (carpet isn't tacked down and baseboards are off and lying on the ground with their exposed nails jutting out.  I had a handyman give me an estimate for putting the baseboards back on and he told me $650!  I really need to become more handy), the toothpaste in the carpet of the bathroom....ALL of it exploded in a fiery shout, "WHY CAN'T ANYTHING JUST....NOT SUCK!" sending my kids hightailing it out to the van.   It makes me sad that I have these moments where I really do scare my boys with my loud anger.  I've never hit them but I know every syllable of audible anger, even if it isn't directed at them, is a verbal slap to their sensitive souls.  I want to be better.

We drove to the concert in Jay's truck because I couldn't find my keys and I hate my van with its jerking, misfiring second cylinder (what the check engine code repeatedly states is wrong.  So, why can't they fix it!?!)  and, although the car ride significantly cooled me off, I still managed to yell out my window at a woman who  parked right on the yellow line of the parking spot, making it impossible for Jay's mammoth truck to fit in the should-have-been-available spot next to her.  Bad parkers are a serious pet peeve of mine.  It's just so.....selfish.  And people whose actions expose their belief that they are more important than everyone else (dictators, pimps, loud talkers in restaurants, vandals, and people who take two prime parking spots on purpose to protect their precious cars (leave them home or park further away)) are some of my least favorite people on the planet.

In spite of my mood, or maybe because of it, I thoroughly enjoyed watching Seth sing.  He is having a great year and is really blossoming into a young man.  Sure, he still leaves his socks everywhere they shouldn't be, and can't clean his room without getting distracted by a book, but he is a quality kid.  He takes his duties seriously - even singing - and I even caught glimpses of some of the others boys in the choir looking back at him (big no-no, but still cute) to make sure they were singing the right part.  They should have been looking at the conductor but she was at the piano.  Kind of another pet peeve of mine but I get that sometimes it is easier to play yourself than find an accompanist.  It just didn't leave the kids, most of whom were immature and embarrassed about singing in the choir in their purple vests (they ARE in middle school, after all), anywhere safe to look.  I was proud of him and loved watching him sing.  I also loved sitting next to Henry while he tried to sing along to every song, whether he knew it or not.  My favorite moment was when the eighth grade choir from the other middle school (did I mention how the concert included three choirs from our middle school, a choir from the cross town middle school and two choirs from the high school?  Fun fun!)  started singing "And I'm proud to be an American," and he said, "Hey, I know this song!"  Like we have Lee Greenwood playing on our itunes all the time.  He's heard it at a few Bolder Boulders but the boy has a sharp memory and, there he was, singing along to the parts he knew.  Very patriotic.

The entire concert made me appreciate my sister, Maureen, and how good her choirs are and the effort that goes into them.  It's not an easy thing to teach fine arts, music, culture, etiquette and all of that fun stuff to youth.  Most don't seem to care, as I witnessed last night with all the whooping and hollering, coming and going during the middle of songs, and waving to parents from the risers.  But, she is good and they sound good and I'm so proud of her for all the work she does.

Which, of course, sent me over into a tizzy of appreciation and love for the rest of my siblings. I love each of them and am so grateful that they are my eternal friends. In fact, I just got off the phone with TWO of my sisters, Emily and Sarah, and now I feel silly for documenting my earlier rant.  They are that calming to my soul.  If only they had called an hour earlier.  I'd delete it all, but I already lost one thousandth post.  I'm not starting over on another, however less embarrassing and flaw exposing it may be!

My parents and Sarah will be here tomorrow.  If that fact doesn't calm me down, also knowing that I have a weekend to listen to general conference, where leaders of my church will address the world with messages of faith and support does.  I love this weekend.  I love knowing that there is purpose in the madness and struggle.  I love knowing that happiness and joy are equally available and that, when I open my eyes and heart, everywhere around me.  It is a necessary reminder.  Especially now.

I thought I'd keep this blog open all day to make it a more accurate snapshot than one mood during one part of the day but, looking ahead, it's too busy to think about blogging anymore.  I've got a YW in Excellence script to write, invitations to make, laundry to fold (oh my goodness do I ever), a house to pick up, a baby to feed (still in utero but it makes me feel less piggish)  and an afternoon and evening full of soccer practices to get boys to and from.  I also haven't seen my husband all week due to his cowboying-up (round-up time with his dad and brothers) and I plan on staring at his handsome face as much as possible tonight.

My soda is gone, so I'm going to be done with this post.  I'm not sure this is very coherent and I'm not going to do any editing, unless I find some glaring errors like a "your" in place of a "you're,"  but, at the very least, my thousandth post will showcase how I, Lucy, felt today, September 29th, 2011, during my 29th week of pregnancy from about 9 until 11 in the morning (with a long phone break in between).  It might not be everyday but it's today.  And isn't that what blogging is all about?

taken today on imac

Book Review: Matched

I'm tempted to give this book five stars because I enjoyed reading it so much. However, logic tells me as much as I enjoyed reading it, Matched, by Ally Condie, was missing vital ingredients required for a five-star masterpiece, like flushed out flawed characters, good descriptive writing (I had a hard time visualizing the setting), and, because it is obviously part of a series, a good ending. Still, for a Young Adult novel, I found myself thinking, thinking, thinking and I'm giving kudos for the thoughts.

Like many futuristic dystopian novels, some government entity, here called The Society, has taken away freedoms in order to eradicate or minimize pain. Unlike many futuristic dystopian novels, this society isn't marked by the gloom, doom, fear and isolation of the individual. Family life is encouraged, nay, scientifically planned. Education, friendships, health and wholesome recreational activities are encouraged. Of course, to ensure all this good fortune is maintained, it is also heavily monitored and regulated. Prescribed happiness.

Though not asked, I believe the central question posed in Matched is, "What makes us happy?" Is it good health? Financial stability? Loving and supportive relationships? As the protagonist, Cassia, frequently reasons, The Society's rules and established order provide for a good life. She has nothing to fear in her future. She has been perfectly matched to marry her best friend, Xander, who happens to be handsome, kind and intelligent. She has been assured of a good job as a sorter, something she enjoys doing and does well. Cassia knows all this and yet, either as an experiment or by accident, something happens that casts a shadow of doubt over everything she has ever known. For the first time, she questions her future. For the first time, she questions period. What she must decide is if her questions bring her closer or further away from the life she ultimately wants.

I can't wait to discuss this with others. I ordered a whole slew of copies for the group of teenage girls I work with at church and hope, through discussion, we can discuss Cassia's choices, planned life and agency. I hope they can identify with her concerns and hopes and fears. I hope they like it as much as I did.

Marky Mark and the Mini Mid-Life Meltdown

I threw up twice this morning. The first time was violent. I barely made it to the bathroom and had to hold my hand over my mouth to prevent an even bigger mess. Vomit all over my long sleeves, my hand, in my nose. It was absolutely nasty.

Then, I drove my minivan into the mechanic for the THIRD time in a month because the check engine light is on and it chugs and heaves when idling. I'm realizing that this eight-year-old car with almost a hundred and forty thousand miles is not going to last forever and, perhaps, if I ever want to sell it, the check engine light and tire pressure sensor light should probably be off. Just a hunch.

While I was walking to the nearby hospital where Jay was working this morning to borrow his truck in order to get myself back home, I had the worst pain underneath my belly on the left side. Not a contraction but a painful, ligament/muscle/skin pull. It really hurt. I had to stop and stretch for awhile to relieve the stitch. I noticed I was breathing much too hard for such a simple walk, got a glimpse of my ever increasing-in-size shadow and smelled the vomit still drying in my nose. Maybe one-hundred feet later, I coughed (school starts and our happy virus free existence is over!). Coughing almost always invites a gag and, once I gag, I can't keep anything down. Even bile. So, even though I had nothing in my stomach, I started throwing up yellow stomach bile on the side of the road.

If that wasn't humiliating enough (I prefer privacy if things are projecting from my mouth), a large semi-truck started down-shifting and I realized, bent over to avoid anything landing on my toes, that this truck needed to turn right were I was stopped. Still heaving, I start walking to get out of the way, leaving little puddles of my insides every few feet.

When Jay saw me, he asked if I was o.k. I wanted to cry and milk every bit of sympathy I'm sure I was due, but he is really sick today. The horrible cold has taken over his body and he can't even stay home from work. I said I didn't feel well, took his key and drove home.

The house is a mess. I've been working so hard, every day, to stay on top of it but the last two days have been non-stop go go go, and without a working dishwasher, the dining/kitchen area is downright unpleasant. Instead of cleaning it up, I ate a piece of left over chocolate cake. It, of course, has stayed down. And I wonder why I have gained so much weight already.

To further avoid cleaning the kitchen that will only need cleaning again tonight, I took advantage of having Jay's truck and drove to the butcher shop that had recently called to say the pig Jay bought at the 4-H fair was ready to be picked up. Of course, I mean the meat, not the pig. As I was driving, I turned Jay's XM radio from the POTUS station he had on to 90s on 9. Good Vibrations by Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch, one of my absolute favorite songs from high school, was playing. I fully get that this is not musical gold, but my lifelong guilty pleasure has got to be questionable-lyrics filled dance tunes (Don't be fancy/Just get dancey anyone?) There was no way to avoid smiling. I knew all the words and imagines flooded my brain of crazy, energetic dancing with my best young friends. Much too quickly, the smile weakened to a mere neutral face and then, without warning, my eyes filled with tears. I'm not that girl anymore.

While thirty-six is far from old, it is also no longer young. Dancing as I loved to do, with abandon and freedom and as much hip action as I liked, is not appropriate for someone in my situation. I'm not Madonna or Beyonce. I am an overweight, pregnant with her fourth, country-living mormon mom. Unless I'm surrounded by my fun-loving and always ready for a laugh siblings, I'm never going to really let loose to Marky Mark ever again.

That doesn't make me sad all that often. Most of the time, I enjoy being a grown-up. But, it's been a stressful week. There has been lots of responsibility, lots and lots of chauffeuring little ones, and much too much decision making and money spending. For those few minutes, on my way to pick up pounds and pounds of pork product, I wanted to be seventeen again, dressed in a funky blue and orange t-shirt and jean cut-off shorts. I wanted my hair to be long and tangled with sweat. To have the kind of life that didn't include pregnancy or laundry, crumbs or dishes. That didn't require me to research dishwasher models online or discipline children who continue to sneak food upstairs or nag young women to finish their personal progress projects for our YW in Excellence next month. Even better, to once more have a body that isn't covered in stretch marks, moles and spider veins.

The moment passed. The tears dried. I loaded the sixty pounds of pig into our laundry room freezer and felt grateful for the security and stability in my life. All those years of schooling and training - done. A best friend who gets me so completely that he even tries to make me laugh on a day when he feels like crap and I look like crap and I know-know-know that this is better. In a matter of minutes, Sam and Henry, quickly followed by Seth and whatever moods and homework they bring home will arrive and, just like yesterday and the day before, I'll take them to soccer and feed them dinner and battle the heartburn that my almost baby boy gives me each night. These vibrations of my life ARE good. Even better than Marky Mark's.

Where's Joseph When I Need Him?

I've read more than once that the state of pregnancy can induce vivid dreams. So true. Most nights, I have very detailed, borderline bizarre dreams that make me laugh, shudder or seek reassurance from various loved ones the day after. Here's what last night brought:

Sidenote: As I lay in bed this morning, each dream segment was so startlingly detailed that I decided to blog about them. Now, as I type, a fuzziness creeps along the edges, rubbing out certain parts.

#1. While in some kind of auditorium, cultural hall (it kept shifting back and forth between something with a low-ish ceiling and a gym), I was frantically searching my quilted church bag for the music the YW were supposed to sing. The room as packed with expectant parents and friends. So packed. Like Broadway show packed. I could not find the right music. I had all of this other music and as I'd pull it out, I'd know immediately it wasn't the right song and I couldn't even substitute because the sheetmusic would be incomplete with many of the middle pages missing. It was our turn to sing and everyone was waiting and I'm throwing things out of my bag, knowing people were turning around in their seats to watch me, and I'm purposely keeping my eyes down to avoid seeing the annoyance and expectations in others faces.

Suddenly, my friend and former counselor, Michelle, was at the piano announcing a different number. I felt panicked because Michelle doesn't play the piano (she does play the cello and ukulele, however. So cool!) and all at once, the girls were doing a choreographed showtune (not at all churchy, which stressed me out) that involved clapping and dancing on a set of risers. There were all sorts of girls I didn't recognize on the risers with them and I felt this huge mixture of relief that they were singing something and shame that I had failed them.

Possible interpretation: I am stressed that i can no longer rely on Michelle's awesome adaptability and knack for handling the YW on short notice. Also, I need to clean out my church bag.

#2. Also a church dream but much more disturbing. I was playing the organ as prelude and the meeting isn't starting on time. People are getting more and more loud in their conversation and, all of a sudden, this girl who is dressed somewhere between being a goth and a throw-back 80's punk rock gal (like she had on this humongous pearl cross necklace in blood red) came on the stand and was shouting and laughing and hugging all of her friends. My reverent playing didn't seem to matter and so I left the organ and sat on a metal folding chair in front of it and said to a girl with a frizzy perm, "Everyone is being too loud. We should be embarrassed I(I think it may have been a Stake Conference setting). The girl stood up, pushed me and told me to mind my own business. We started to brawl. Brawl! There was a hallway behind the seats on the stand and we were pushing each other down it and I told her to stay out. I won the brawl but not decidedly and I came back to play the organ and give the loud blond girl wearing the bright red cross the stink eye. Suddenly, I came to a hymn in the hymnbook I had never seen or heard but it was the perfect message. When I started to play it, the sound dropped to an immediate hush and there were several people crying it was so beautiful. I think I cried too.

Possible interpretation: The YW in the stake have been asked to sing a song at stake conference. I have no idea why this could or would be stressful to me, since it isn't at all, but maybe my subconscious realizes something I don't and is stressed about how the song will go (see dream #1). As far as the brawling goes, I would never, ever even tell someone to be quiet, much less physically fight them about it. I believe the perms and crosses have to do with some prejudices of mine.

#3. I am in eighth grade. I know this because I am in Mr. Barker's classroom only the room is facing a different direction than it actually did. I am waiting in my desk for the bell to ring but at the same time, am sticking my head out the door to see if Henry is coming. He is. He's running down the hall, trying not to be late (Mr. Barker was mean) and I'm hurrying him along in my head. He's bigger but still wearing the outfit he wore to last night's actual football game, a Thomas the Tank Engine t-shirt and blue zip-up hoodie. Only....bigger. He makes it in time, sits down one row over and one seat up and just as I'm about to relax, he starts brushing his teeth with a loud Sonicare toothbrush. My heart races at the noise and mess and Jay starts to rub my neck from behind me, telling me to calm down. I feel calmer. I love his touch and reassurance and can feel myself loving him deeply, even though we are only eighth graders. Then, many of those in the class start to brush their teeth and I realize it's all o.k. We just got back from lunch.

Possible interpretation: I worry about my kids hygiene habits and their new teachers since school just started. Another thought, Henry's personality stresses me out even though his mischief and marching to the beat of his own drum will turn out fine. Also, I desperately need Jay.

That's the best I can do without bidding Joseph to come and interpret these dreams for me. I'm looking for more prophetic meaning, like famine or plenty, but mostly think I should double check my church bag for the right music before Sunday. And, should you be thinking about it, don't go out and get a perm. I might beat you up.

Book Review: Angle of Repose

I loved this book even more the second time around. In my opinion, this is the perfect novel. I don't have the expertise to identify the exact narration technique, but to have the narrator, Lyman Ward, not only share his beloved grandparent's 100 year-old history from his 20th century perch, providing both redemptive hindsight and worrisome foreshadowing when needed, but also his own story as an amputee with a debilitating bone disease bitterly protecting his lonely independence, furnishing the relevance and motive, is brilliant. I know many other authors must also do this. It's probably considered common by those in the know within the world of literature. However, I read a lot of novels and I can't think of a single book I've ever read that has done it better than Wallace Stegner in Angle of Repose.

Angle of Repose dramatizes the life of Susan Burling Ward, a talented illustrator raised in an Eastern Quaker home, and her marriage to Oliver Ward, a kind, intelligent but tragically unlucky engineer trying to make a name for himself in the West. Through Susan and Oliver's first fourteen years together, the reader travels to mining camps in California, Colorado and Mexico, and eventually to pre-Statehood Idaho, painting an absolute masterpiece of American West history. Although Lyman Ward is a fictional character in a fictional novel, his passionate defense of the importance of history, could and should be well quoted by actual scholars in the field. Even his short but wonderfully persuadable argument against communal economics and relationships should be studied. They are that profound.

But, as the narrator states, this is really a story about marriage. What allows certain couples, who universally tumble down life's uncertain slope together, to reach a point where the tumbling stops? For rocks and debris in the engineering realm, it's called the angle of repose. There is an eventual stillness, for good or for bad, when the motion or hurt or progress or momentum stops. Perhaps it is balance and harmony. Or, perhaps it is staleness, stubbornness and unrelenting grudges. I'm sure the meaning of "angle of repose" could be presented either way. I lean towards the calm, comfortable stability definition but maybe the stationary rocks aren't content with their quiet.

I hope to return to this novel again and again. It's not a happy one. In many ways, there is a melancholy post-reading that I still can't shake. But, there is also a beauty in words, thoughts and vivid description that makes me clap for joy. I love this book.