Hey Nonny

Scenes from Our Next Episode

March 9th, 2012 | by heynonny | No Comments

Dear Readers,

Well, this is it! Here are some links to where you can follow us in the future:

Melissa will be spending more time with her family (It ain’t just for disgraced politicians, anymore.) and eating less pie.  She would like to thank Jeff for proofreading all of her posts and for being cool with her making his life an open book.  That’s hot.  If you find yourself missing stories about Jeff, you can visit her family blog at maximumbrainjail.blogspot.com.

Anne plans to spend the spring potty training Johnny, getting ready for a half marathon, and selling her house. Also taking a nap. You can catch up on her latest and help her decide if she should buy a minivan at hey-nonny.blogspot.com.

Ashley’s baby is due in three weeks. Since he’ll have a March birthday, she’ll probably give him an Irish name and dress him in green. Every now and then she updates her wannabe sewing blog sewedhermind.blogspot.com. She is also addicted to sewing doll clothes for her Etsy shop. Hey speaking of dolls, if you remember this post (because it was so memorable), she wants you to know that she bought that bride doll after all. For over 50% off. It is now the most glorious doll in her collection.

Liz is hoping for sunny skies and an early spring. The next few months will find her happily grocery shopping, tending the Chia Pet, and getting her canning jars ready to bottle up the harvest of another season. You can follow her at One Fine Morning . . .

Thank you all for being part of the much ado about nothing at Hey Nonny. To borrow a line from Meg Ryan’s character in You’ve Got Mail, “All of this nothing has meant more to [us] than so many somethings.”

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Learning to say good-bye

March 8th, 2012 | by Liz | 8 Comments

My most prolonged and difficult good-bye began the day I left my lifelong home in Utah and came East. At first, I didn’t even realize that I was saying good-bye. I was way too excited for the future to begin to be concerned about what I was leaving behind.  Because we came out here the day after we got married, I carried on through the weeks and days preceding our move to New York with the blissful happy ignorance of a bride. This state of bliss continued for several months after I moved here; it all felt like one extended honeymoon.

Our wedding day--our last day in Utah

However, as it always does, reality set finally in. It happened sometime during my first Upstate New York winter when it dawned on me that I had left home without saying good-bye, and that I likely wasn’t going to be heading home any time soon.

What followed was a period of prolonged and intense homesickness, as well as a penchant to compare my current surroundings with the way things were done—in my humble opinion, far better—back home. I refused to call New York “home” and so, for a long time it just felt like a place that I was visiting.

Last summer, on our way home from a camping trip, we found ourselves driving west on I-80. For our Utah (and Utah alumni) readers , this is the same interstate that takes you right through Park City and down into the Salt Lake Valley.  (Yep, that little road really does stretch all the way across the country to New York State.)  As we drove toward the setting sun, Trent turned to me and said, “Do you think the day will ever come when we pack up the car and just keep driving west until we’re home?”  My response surprised both of us. “No. “ I said. “I think we’re here long term. But it doesn’t matter. This is home to me now.’

I don’t think that was the exact moment that I realized I’d changed, but it was a moment that gave me pause. With the passing of time, I’ve learned to stop looking over my shoulder; somehow I’ve finally embraced the life that I have here; somehow I’ve learned to love the life I have, instead of pining for the life back home.

A couple of days ago, one of my dearest friends told me that she and her family were moving back to Utah. She told me gently and tenderly, as though she feared the news might be too much for me to bear. The thing is, though, while I’m genuinely happy for her opportunity to return back to the place where her extended family live, I’m equally happy to be staying where I am. There’s a great satisfaction that comes from knowing that you’re exactly where you are supposed to be. I feel that sense of satisfaction now, and that is enough for me.

I suppose that’s how I feel when I think about saying good-bye to Hey-Nonny. It’s the right thing—for right now. There’s a sense of goodness about all that.

But I’m going to miss it, too. Thanks for tuning in. We’ve loved spending our Thursdays with you.

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Finished

March 7th, 2012 | by Ashley | 5 Comments

I love finishing things.

Maybe the feeling I love when something is finished is the feeling that I’ve accomplished something–checked something off as “done.” I’m not a big list-maker. I don’t set a ton of goals and I don’t have a bucket list. I also stopped writing “to-do” lists because those can go on depressingly forever. But finishing–whether it be a project or a big fat book–gives me a sense of progression; measurable evidence that I started, worked on, and finished something that moved me forward.

There is so much in our lives that we can’t finish. We can’t finish our own characters and we can’t finish relationships with people we love. We can’t check a child off our list as “done.” And there are other things that we can finish but don’t stay finished for very long. You can technically finish all of your housework and laundry, but it’s not going to last. You can finish doing your hair and make-up for the day, but you’ll just have to do it again tomorrow (or the next day.) You can bake a cake, but if it’s any good, it will get eaten.

Two unfinished projects . . .

So finishing something that stays finished is tremendously satisfying. It’s why I keep sewing and stitching and reading. And the satisfaction of finishing something always leaves me with excitement for the next project, the next creative thing I want to tackle.

A finished project . . .yeah, I make doll clothes

This is how I feel a little about Hey Nonny. While I will miss the writing and the reading, I feel that in having finished my time here, I have accomplished something good and worthwhile. I’ve moved forward. I don’t think I’ve become a better writer, but I certainly have become a better person–maybe a little more insightful and appreciative of varying perspectives; definitely more aware and grateful for women and men who believe in families and children. And having fun.

So thank you. It feels good to have finished here–and as soon as this pregnancy is finished, I am off to the next big thing . . . like a new baby. I’m pretty excited to start that project.

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Concluding Conundrum

March 6th, 2012 | by Anne | 33 Comments

Once upon a million years ago, I played Wendy in the musical version of Peter Pan. The best line I got to deliver was while telling bedtime stories to the Lost Boys. Wendy recounts the “happily ever after” endings of several fairy tales, and then the Lost Boys ask about the ending of Hamlet. As I remember it, Wendy replies,

I feel sort of like Wendy now, trying to come up with a good way to tell the ending of our Hey Nonny story. Endings are a tricky business. They need closure that isn’t too tidy, something memorable that isn’t overwhelming. Composing conclusions has never been my strong suit. In college I submitted a draft of an essay with the confession that the ending still needed work. My professor scribbled in the margin, “Yes! Your conclusions stink.”

So today I’m leaving my concluding thoughts to abler hands. For your reading pleasure, here are the masterful endings of some of my favorite works of fiction.

Ending as a New Beginning: Gone with the Wind

It works on the page, it works on screen, it works when you decide to save the dinner dishes for the tomorrow morning. Scarlett’s last words about getting Rhett back are classic.

The Understated Ending: To Kill a Mockingbird

After escaping murder, meeting Boo Radley, and having an epiphany of empathy (all in ham costume), Scout falls asleep while Atticus reads her a bedtime story. This ending encapsulates the whole book’s genius of combining the simple and profound.

Ending in Metaphor: The Grapes of Wrath

The scene when Rose of Sharon breastfeeds the starving man is every high school boy’s nightmare, every English teacher’s dream. To me it speaks of compassion, of hope, and of life persevering.

Finally, there’s the ending to the play that inspired Hey Nonny—Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. After the villain is exposed, families are reconciled, and lovers united, Sir Benedick starts itching to dance. Three times he calls for musicians, and the play’s last words are “Strike up, pipers.” The stage instructions dictate that the players leave the stage dancing.

Me in pilgrimage to the original site of Shakespeare’s Globe. 1997. Totally embarrassing.

Some argue this happily-ever-after revelry masks the play’s darker themes of betrayal, deception, and discord. But I think it’s possible Shakespeare had something else entirely in mind. I think perhaps the song-and-dance ending was intended as a celebration not of the plot, but of the process of the play itself. Inevitably the conflicts will endure, but for a brief time the actors and the audience have come together in a kind of contract to imagine, to question, to play in the safety of Shakespeare’s Globe.

Thanks to you, that contract is what Hey Nonny has been for me—a virtual liminal space where we’ve joined each other to laugh, listen, and notice together. I’ve loved it so much that, like Benedick, I want to call in the pipers to celebrate.

How do your favorite stories end?

*Comden, Betty, and Adolph Green. 1954 Peter Pan.

Mitchell, Margaret. Gone With the Wind. New York: Macmillan 1964. 733

Lee, Harper. To Kill a Mockingbird. New York: Harper Collins, 1999. 323.

Steinbeck, John. The Grapes of Wrath. New York: Penguin, 1992. 618-19.

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Letting Go

March 5th, 2012 | by Melissa | 35 Comments

The past few months have been very busy for us here at Hey Nonny.  Liz and Anne both gave birth to baby boys, Ashley’s baby will be here any day now, and I got my bangs trimmed.  Whew!  Just thinking about it makes me tired.  When we started this blog a year and a half ago, our circumstances were very different.  Writing a weekly post wasn’t always easy, but it was a great opportunity to share our thoughts and exercise our writing muscles.  Recently it’s become clear to us all that as we enter a new season of life, maintaining this blog to the best of our abilities is no longer possible.  Therefore, it saddens me to tell you, dear readers, that this will be our last week of posts.  We’ll say our final goodbyes on Friday.  Meanwhile, we’ll take this week to share our thoughts on finishing, endings, goodbyes.

I’m okay with goodbyes.  Usually, you really don’t have any choice in the matter, anyway.  If someone dies, or you move away, or you finish school, or your favorite t.v. show is cancelled—you have to say goodbye.  (Unless of course they make an awesome movie out of it like they did with Firefly or they make a super lame movie out of it like Sex and the City 2.)  For me the hardest part of endings is letting go.

After I graduated from college, I had a mild anxiety attack any time I visited the campus.  I was thoroughly convinced that someone from the Office of Important Stuff would find me in the hallway and say, “Oh, I’m glad I caught you!  I was just looking over your records and it seems you didn’t complete our required ancient pottery course, so I’ll need that diploma back.”  I had worked so hard for so many years, that my mind couldn’t accept that it was truly over.  I guess that would be the “denial” stage of grief people are always talking about.

I also have a tendency to want to change the past once something ends.  I’ll find myself wishing I had spent more time with a friend who passes, or visited more tourist sights in the city I’m leaving, or started watching Chuck way back when it began.  When we decided to stop blogging on Hey Nonny, my mind was suddenly filled with posts I would never have a chance to write.  (Including: “Tennessee Williams is Overrated”, “Why I’m Not Giving You a Gold Star for Choosing Natural Childbirth”, “Absurd Questions About Mormons that My Close Friends Should Know Better Than to Ask”, and “Twilight—I Just Don’t Get It”.)  I understood logically that I can still write blog posts after this, but suddenly the matter seemed urgent.  (For the record: these are all topics my husband wisely suggested I leave alone.  Except Tennessee Williams.  Pretty sure only a few people would find it offensive.  Hey!  You know which Tennessee Williams play I love?  The one that takes place in the South and it’s really hot and there’s a crazy Southern woman who complains a lot.  (See what I did there?))

Once I finally allow myself to let go of an ending, I tend to view my experience through rose-colored glasses.  I forget all the stress of schoolwork and the insecurities brought on by bad skin and think, “Gosh, high school was the best!”  I forget the late nights listening to a director prattle on about how we’re forever changing the face of theater and think, “Sure wish we had one more community theater performance of Our Town left!”  I forget the hours going cross-eyed from boredom and think, “Being assistant to the regional manager of this insurance branch was the best six months of my life!”  Or my favorite, “Childbirth wasn’t that bad!  Let’s have another!”  I only remember what I want to remember.  I’m sure years from now when I look back on my Hey Nonny experience, I’ll forget all of those late Sunday nights staring at a blank computer screen as I finish off a box of Thin Mints yearning for inspiration and think, “Man!  I wish I still had a forum to complain about Tennessee Williams!”

I don’t know if any of you ever feel this way, but I hope you do.  That’s been one of my favorite parts of this experience—realizing I’m not insane.  So, thank you.  And when you think of me, I hope you remember me like this:

[Breathtaking photo courtesy Danica Nelson Photography.]

And not as I truly am:

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Pets vs. No Pets

March 2nd, 2012 | by Friday Feature | 11 Comments

Cara makes her home in the Midwest. Once, while playing some word games with a bunch of other ladies, the question was asked of each player, if someone were to write a biography about you what would the title be? The response she would always regret giving was “Tired.” If she had the opportunity to amend that response it would be, “Cara Doesn’t Do Sexy.”

A favorite quote from this past year of my life as a mother of four:  “I’m sorry to tell you Mr. Davis, but Marbles has passed away.” Marbles was our goldfish. And my boys would tell you, the one and only pet we have ever owned. Caleb, seven years old, really wanted to bring Marbles home from a fundraising event we attended where all the tables had goldfish in pretty, dollar store vases, featured as centerpieces and auction items. He sat with his face in his hands, elbows on the table, staring at this fish all night making little comments regarding its future. He wondered who would get to take the fish home, and if I noticed how pretty the fish was. He thought out loud that whoever got to buy it should name it Marbles.  I caved when with his chubby little cheeks still in his hands and his eyes still staring straight at that fish—he said, “Mommy, I think Marbles loves me.”

I’m not made of steel you know. I had to let that boy’s wish come true. When my darling husband heard about our purchase/prize, he predicted it would live for three days. The fish lived for exactly three days, and upon informing the boys that Marbles had died (naturally darling husband was out of town for this moment and I was alone in comforting the comfortless), my four year old asked me through alligator tears, “Mommy, did you kill it?”

Turns out I probably did, but truly, it was not on purpose—something to do with chlorinated water. It seems to take all the skills I possess just to care for the children, and said skills do not extend to other living things such as fish and plants. Just ask any of those cute African Violet plants the grocery stores sell that made it into my cart over the years. Try as I might I couldn’t keep those things alive. The above quote was the subject line from the e-mail I sent my husband while he was out of town and unreachable. I thought he ought to know about our one and only pet, and I needed him to call home and vouch for me with our four-year-old that I really didn’t mean to kill the fish.

My husband loved the cat he grew up with. When Bette (the cat) got ill and started leaving half digested piles of Meow Mix around the house, it became my husband’s job to grab the heaving cat and get her outside before the piles were left inside. On any given day, I am told, one could drive by his childhood home and see a heaving cat come flying out the front door. Stephen was a compassionate boy, I would imagine it was tough to get a convulsing cat out the front door gently while still attaining the ultimate goal of the Meow Mix not ending up on the carpet. My WWII era mother-in-law took pity on the cat and thought she would at least drive it over to the vet school to see if something could be done about it. In her day families didn’t pay money for pet healthcare. Same was true of my wonderful, same era, father-in-law. So it was understood that no one was to tell dad about the money spent on Bette the cat, even if it was only at the vet school. This was the 80s after all. One night my father-in-law, who was serving as the local stake president at the time and often received calls if a member of his congregation passed away, got a peculiar call from someone. “Mr. Davis,” said the person on the phone, “Why yes!” my friendly father-in-law replied. “I’m sorry to tell you Mr. Davis, but Bette has passed away.” He stood for a minute trying and trying to think who Bette could be. Finally he replied in his bellowing friendly voice, “Bette who?!” The vet incredulously replied, “Why, Bette your cat, sir.”

The question of whether or not our family should acquire what my son qualifies as a “REAL” pet, aka dog or cat, comes up often. Tears are usually involved. Marbles and Bette, as well as many other pets that have touched our lives, have bearing on the answer our tearful children get from us.  I distinctly recall a friend, who had several young children at the time, buying a dog, and a few weeks later we saw that very same dog on the local newscast’s nightly adopt-a-pet segment. True story. I took that as a lesson for my own life. I’m still trying to get over the fish that passed on in my care. The thing is, I take my children to the zoo, and the part of the zoo they can’t get enough of and really do love the most, is riding the train. I think that says something about our potential for pet ownership. We have come up with a solution that we think we can live with. We have started a savings account for each of our children. It is designated to either pay for college or the therapy they might need after their parents deny them the chance to own a “REAL” pet, you know, other than the neighbor’s dog whom they still don’t willingly pet. Sometimes parents just have to go with their instinct on these things.

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Of marshmallows and chia pets

March 1st, 2012 | by Liz | 7 Comments

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve encountered a bevy of articles and stories advocating teaching children a concept called delayed gratification. It would seem that if I want to raise decent, God-fearing, respectful  children (and I do) then they need to learn early on that waiting is worthwhile and patience is powerful.

You’re likely familiar with the famous study performed by a Dr. Mischel who gave children a marshmallow and told them if they waited 15 minutes to eat it, they’d get a reward (in this case, another marshmallow). As you can imagine, most kids couldn’t wait and consumed the marshmallow sitting in front of them.  A small minority did wait and were rewarded. The kicker came with Dr. Mischel’s follow-up research: the kids who were able to wait were, by and large, happier and more successful in life.

I happen to have a daughter who is the exact age of the kids in Dr. Mischel’s study. I know absolutely that if this child were given a marshmallow and told to wait she would either A) throw the marshmallow at the face of the kindly doctor and run out of the room or B)eat it greedily and demand more. In short: delayed gratification is not a part of Lillian’s world.

Several days ago, Lillian came upstairs with the Chia Pet (oh yeah) that we received as a gag gift about five years ago. “Let’s make this mom!” she said excitedly. “Can we make it now? Can we? Can we make it, huh, Mom, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?”  It was a Friday afternoon and we didn’t have a lot going on, so I heartily concurred.

Upon opening the little Chia and reading the instructions, however, I was forced to tell a disappointed Lillian that it had to soak for a full day before we could plant any seeds. The twenty-four hour wait was akin to torture for her, but wait she did, and the next day we planted seeds. At this point it dawned on Lillian that the seeds were gross and it was going to take another several days for the thing to grow. I think she actually cried—the thought of waiting was just that painful.

In one of my more brilliant moves as a mother (if I may say so), the whole thing reminded me of a Frog and Toad story that I’d read a long time ago. We pulled out the story and read together about Frog’s disappointment while planting a garden that didn’t grow immediately. Frog learned that it took time and great care to get a garden to grow–but eventually it would grow, and there was great satisfaction to be had in both the waiting and the reaping.

The message was not lost on Lillian. Nor was it lost on me. While she’s spent the last week waiting for her Chia Pet to grow, I’ve had my own thoughts and new understandings about my current life situation. My children are my garden and I’m currently planting seeds. In time, the harvest will be—I hope—a bounteous one.

Today, much to Lillian’s great satisfaction, her Chia Pet looks like this:

And today, my little darlings look like this:

We have great hope for who they might become. In the meantime, I’m living on faith, and learning a thing or two about delayed gratification in the process.

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Undiet Food

February 29th, 2012 | by Ashley | 8 Comments

Yesterday afternoon Abby had a couple of friends over for a special occasion–her doll’s birthday. She wrapped some presents for her doll and hung up our family birthday sign. All I had to do was bake some mini cupcakes for the party. So I did. When the girls came over, they frosted and decorated the cupcakes (while Cameron licked frosting off the knife) and sang “Happy Birthday.” I was downstairs when one of the girls brought me a cupcake. “Here you go,” she said, “You can have all of mine because I don’t like undiet food.”

“Undiet food?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she replied, “you know–like food that isn’t good for you. I don’t really like it that much but you can have some.”

Was it because I was wearing my big grey pajama pants? Was it because my giant stomach (and let’s face it–other parts of me) looked so big to her? At what point in her mind did she say to herself, “Wow, Abby’s mom should eat all of these cupcakes because it looks like she has already?”

I had to laugh (with my mouth full of cupcake) because not only do I adore this little girl and the funny things she says, but I know she’s right. My days of eating cookies and candy with abandon are numbered. I wish I could tell you that I am a responsible pregnant person who eats only the best nutritional food while she is pregnant, but I’m not. I eat an apple here and there, but I eat a lot of junk too. And in a few weeks when this baby is finally here, I’m going to have a major undiet food withdrawal.

My little friend and her cupcakes--she told me to get her sleeve in the picture because polka dots go well with sprinkles.

So excuse me while I enjoy fast food chicken sandwiches, grilled cheese sandwiches, chocolate chip cookies, and Pop Tarts while I can. My kids may have to hide their Easter baskets from me this year, but oh well. And really, I’m doing this baby a favor. I recently read in a pregnancy magazine that what we eat while pregnant helps develop the baby’s taste buds. And that’s just not true. When I was pregnant with Cameron, I could not abide the sight, smell, or thought of chocolate. I avoided it like crazy. And now because he was so deprived of chocolate while in utero, Cameron is alarmingly a chocoholic monster. So I’m just hoping this baby will pass on all the undiet food that comes his way and eat all of his vegetables.

Because heaven help me, vegetables are all I will be eating for the next year! Sigh.

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Scentimental

February 28th, 2012 | by Anne | 12 Comments

Do certain smells that remind you of certain things?

I asked Wade, and he said Hawaiian Tropic takes him to St. George as a kid, nursing-home smell reminds him of his great grandmother, and a waft of freshly baked doughnuts makes him feel like a freshman in college making $8.50 an hour to lift baked goods from a conveyor belt at 3 o’clock in the morning.

The smell of yeast transports me to my grandma’s kitchen, chalk sends me to my windowless classroom at Timpview High School, and Revlon lipstick joins me backstage before opening night of a big show.

Then of course there’s Man Smell. I grew up in a house populated mostly by girls where things smelled like Suave mousse and Bubble Yum, with the significant exception of our older brother’s bedroom. His room had a Man Smell that was unalleviated by carpet cleaning, fresh paint, and his ultimate relocation to a college dorm. Six weeks into married life found me in a sea of Febreze after the discovery of Man Smell in the bedroom I now shared with a Man.

But probably the most distinctive smell in my life has been my mother’s perfume. She’s worn the same floral spray since my dad bought her a bottle for Mother’s Day thirty years ago. People remember her for it. To me it smells like roses and listening, read-aloud stories and home.

I’ve tried to come up with a signature scent of my own, with varying degrees of success. In high school  I wore Laura Ashley No. 1, a perfume I chose primarily because it came in a flowered bottle and with a teapot as a Free Gift. Sadly, it turned out such accompaniments were less alluring to the boys I was hoping to allure. The boy who sat in front of me during 1^st period came to school one day with a bottle of CK One perfume and a note: “This might help you out with the guys. Do yourself a favor and dump that old stuff down the sink.”

These days I wear Jivago because I can get it cheap online and it makes me feel fancy in my sweats. But I’m not sure why I bother, because I’m afraid the scent my boys are most likely to associate with hearth and home is a zesty blend of dirty diapers and burnt toast. Or Man Smell. Oh well–whatever the scent, if it brings happy memories, it’ll smell good to me.

What’s your ode to the olfactory?

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Nightfloaters (Like nightcrawlers, only scarier.)

February 27th, 2012 | by Melissa | 12 Comments

Occasionally my husband Jeff has to work nights at the hospital.  He’s in the middle of one of these nightfloat shifts right now and it’s the opposite of awesome.  These shifts usually last for a couple of weeks and by the end of it, we have not fared well.

Usually the first night isn’t so bad.  I’ll wave goodbye to Jeff just before putting the kids to bed.  Then I’ll pop in a movie that I know he would hate as sort of an in-your-face to nightfloat.  (“Suck it, nightfloat!  Now I can finally see Where the Heart Is sans guilt!”)  After two hours of Ashley Judd, I’ll catch up on my current events by watching Letterman’s monologue for the first time in six months and then decide to turn in for the night.  I’ll double lock all the doors (not my usual custom) and check under the bed and in the closets for mashers before finally turning off my bedroom light at the last possible moment.

I’ll spend the next day tiptoeing around the house so as not to wake Jeff.  He’ll wake up groggy around 4pm, quickly shower, grab a Hot Pocket and we’ll say goodbye again.  This is where things turn ugly.  Having already watched the Ashley Judd movie that’s been in my Netflix cue for a year, I am left to surf aimlessly for something to keep me company while I fold laundry.  I choose a murder mystery and two hours later realize that was a stupid idea.  It is now midnight, but I can’t possibly sleep, so I watch a few reruns of Frazier.  Two hours later, I figure I’ll just check my email “real quick” and end up on Facebook where I learn what society, families, friends, and others think that people do and also what those people actually do.  It’s very confusing, so I head to my room with a migraine where I check under the bed and in the closets for mashers before finally turning off my bedroom light at the last possible moment.

Around day three, the hallucinations begin.  Have I told you about my bedtime hallucinations?  Apparently they can occur in people who have had childhood trauma and in times of great stress.  Other than the summer vacation I spent driving around the desert looking for graves with my family, my childhood was relatively trauma-free.  So I’m assuming my hallucinations are brought on by stress.

Sometimes I’ll wake up and think the ceiling is slowly caving in on me and other times I’ll see a man standing above my bed watching me sleep peacefully.  I’ve seen spiders crawling all over the walls and bookcases falling.  It’s a little unsettling.  Day three is also when I start building a Jeff out of pillows to try and trick my mind into believing there’s someone sleeping next to me.  Unfortunately, night time me is never as stupid as I’m hoping she’ll be.  Right about the time I’m finally drifting off to sleep, the train comes by.  Oh, did I mention there’s a train in my backyard?  That’s not an exaggeration.  There’s a train in my backyard.  I could throw a rock from my bedroom window and hit the passing train, if I wanted to (which I do at 3am on a weeknight).

During the day I find it hard to find the motivation to take all of my kids to the grocery store, so my son ends up eating whatever I can find in the pantry to pack for his lunch.  (“Hardboiled eggs and garlic croutons, again?!”)  The bags around my eyes become more and more visible and my kids keep asking if there’s a baby in my tummy.  (Nope.  It’s just the extra pizza Combos I’m packin’ these days.)  My friends begin sending out invitations for my intervention (I think you can find a tutorial for them on Pinterest) and I continue to spend my nights watching Ashley Judd movies because she’s the only one who makes sense in my world gone mad.

By the end of two weeks, I am in full-fledged zombie mode.  It’s not pretty.

Once we both get the rest we need and get back on our schedule, I have time to reflect on our experience and play The Glad Game.  For example, I can be glad that this is the last time Jeff will ever have to work a nightfloat shift.  I can be glad that he doesn’t have a job where he travels a lot because clearly I don’t sleep well alone.  I can also be glad that my “before” picture for my summer beach body will be sufficiently grotesque.

But until then, I’ll continue to check under the bed and in the closets for mashers before turning off the bedroom lights at the last possible moment.

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Dear Allison; Yours Truly, Allison

February 24th, 2012 | by Friday Feature | 12 Comments

Allison lives in 400 square feet in NYC with her husband, Noah. She enjoys traveling, finding furniture on the street and any gift purchased with a Groupon. Her most notable achievements are a letter to the editor published in USA Today in grade 2, a state penmanship award in grade 4 (she peaked early), and marrying up. Way up. She blogs, at no discernible interval, at reallytherileys.blogspot.com.

I’m not a mother yet. But I’m already gathering the mental reserves to raise our Allison. Because I’m going to get an Allison. It’s only fair that I have to raise an Allison.

Oh, but our Allison. While she will throw illogical tantrums over the way grandpa peels an orange or go postal when you can’t guess in which cup she wanted her milk served, she will undoubtedly serve as a source of humor and levity in our lives.

I offer you, dear reader, a few examples of the way her little mind is going to process things. I know this because I’m her. And I so get it. These are examples I swore I would take to my grave. And in a classic example of not knowing my audience, I’m sharing these stories with veritable strangers. Hopefully Allison will find a copy someday and take some comfort in my words.

We moved when I was six. My last day at Marlon Hills Elementary School was punctuated with a movie (Beethoven. Awesome.) and a slumber party at my best friend’s house. Somewhere in the course of the evening, I spotted a small package of fudge on a counter in their basement. While prone to tantrums, I wasn’t particularly prone to mischief. But I could taste its chocolately goodness and in a moment of weakness, I slipped it into my LA Gear overnight bag and played it cool. I got home the next day and stole away to a quiet corner, ready to sample the fruits of my opposite-of-labor. I unwrapped the package and sunk my teeth into… clay? What the what? I can’t imagine the conversations going down at the Byrne home when what was surely an art assignment for an older sibling went missing. All I knew was I was holding a smoking gun and I needed to do something with it. And fast. So I did what seemed the only rational thing to do. I sculpted three little women, modeled after the first grade teachers at the new school I’d begin attending the following week, and presented them to my new teachers upon my arrival. Naturally.

So if she ever sculpts clay figurines with as-yet-unknown educators as her muses, forgive me if I leap to the conclusion she has a sweet tooth and a guilty conscience. This guilt will follow her for the next 20 years until she finally confesses on a blog, so I’ll probably just let her work that one out on her own.

Fast forward five years and the unusual brightness I exhibited as a young child has developed into full-fledged nerdiness. That’s fine for future scholarship prospects, but not so fine for crushes amounting to much. In 5^th grade, the boys aren’t so much scanning the classroom for earning potential. I’d made peace with the fact my crush, let’s call him Brad (because that’s his name), and I weren’t going to be sitting in any trees K-I-S-S-I-N-G. But I would settle for a photo. And that’s how the 5^th grade newsletter was born. I reported on the Fun Walk, the Weber State football players assembly, and other 5^th grade goings-on. The newsletter also included, oh-wouldn’t-you-know-it, a spotlight feature on two classmates, accompanied by their photo.

You guys. Are you hearing this? I researched, wrote, edited, photographed, designed and published nine issues of that ridiculous 5^th grade newsletter for an excuse to take one picture of the boy of my dreams. By spring, I was so sick of that #@*% newsletter, but I soldiered on.

So when Allison uses her nerdy wiles to develop some extravagant after-school project, I will recognize it for what it is – salve for a desiring heart. She’s definitely going to finish all nine issues of whatever it is she thinks up, because why not also learn follow-through in the process? But I’ll keep a knowing eye for whomever is featured first in photos.

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8 reasons I’m glad it’s February

February 23rd, 2012 | by Liz | 11 Comments

If there is one month of the year that I struggle mightily to endure, it is February. In my book, the only thing February has going for it (other than the brief 24 hour glory of love called Valentine’s Day) is that it’s the shortest month of the year. Seriously, just thinking about February at other times of the year is enough to make my smile turn upside down: this is the time of year when my cabin fever reaches its peak and I sometimes find it difficult to shake the ice and snow off my soul.

But today, instead of drowning in my February blues, I’m taking a turn for the positive. Here, in random order then, are eight reasons I’m glad it’s February (I’m proceeding on the dim theory here that the power of positive thinking will make the rest of the winter a little easier to endure). I know, most people would go for ten reasons, but I don’t want to push my luck. Eight seems like a good, healthy number, don’t you think?

8.  Thanks to the Dowager Countess and the rest of the Downton gang, Sunday nights in February have never been a disappointment (note to Julian Fellows–who likely doesn’t read this blog, but just in case he might one day: I love you. You are brilliant).

7. We’re currently experiencing the mildest winter that Upstate NY has had in 150 years. That means I’ve seen a lot of grass and not a lot of snow. Which is nice.

6. The mild winter means that these little guys were poking their heads out of the ground today. It’s pretty early for them to come, but whenever I see the rebirth in my flower gardens, I feel a swell of hope.

5. It’s been just cold enough that I haven’t been able to run outside, yet. This also means that I’ve avoided falling down in front of a school bus while catching a fall with my face. That’s a good thing.

4. Today is Trent’s birthday. I’m so glad he was born, even if it had to be during the most rotten month of the year.

the birthday boy and his twin

3. No daylight savings time. That means it’s dark all the time. And that means that my kids sleep a little more. Which is nice.

2. This year, it’s leap year. I’m making big plans for a leap year party. Not sure what we’re going to do, but it will be a celebration worthy of a day that only comes around once every four years.

1. In less than three months, my garden is going to look like this:

See? There really is so much to love about February. Right? Right.

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Cousins

February 22nd, 2012 | by Ashley | 7 Comments

Max pins Cameron--in matching bug pajamas

Lately I’ve had some pretty strong leverage with Cameron. Anytime I need a threat, a bribe, or a bit of persuasive enticement, all I have to say is, “Do you want to see your cousin Max?” This has been working for all types of toddler scenarios: the fidgety diaper-change, the half-eaten lunch, the toys on the floor, and the bolt into the parking lot. All I have to say is, “Hey, do you want to see Max? Then be still/eat your food/pick up your toys/come here!!” And it works. Almost every time.

Because Cameron absolutely adores his cousin Max.

Max is my three-year-old nephew. I officially became an aunt when he was born and he was Abby’s first cousin. But since my sister and I have had boys just a few years apart (with more to come!), it has been so much fun for me to see Max and Cameron become little buddies. Cameron lights up when Max comes into the room. And even if they end up fighting over a toy or pushing each other, they manage to keep playing with no love lost between them.

While I’ve been using this sweet cousin relationship to my advantage as a mom, I can’t help but feel grateful that my kids live close to their cousins. My siblings and I grew up in Utah with all of our cousins and extended family in Arizona. But we visited a lot and some of my favorite childhood memories are of playing with my cousins. We made up dances in the living room, stayed up late watching movies, and played in the pool (or the irrigation ditches if we were all visiting Grandma.) We picked fights with the boy cousins, painted our nails, and got into trouble with our moms for sneaking food or being annoying. As a kid I considered Arizona to be paradise–not because of the awesome pools and orange trees, but because of my cousins.

As my kids grow up, I hope they will always be close to their cousins. I especially hope I can still use Max as leverage while Cameron faces some upcoming hurdles in his young life. I’ve already reminded him that Max has a baby brother, does not need a binkie, and uses the potty. (To which Cameron has replied to all three facts: “Nope, he’s not.” Denial.)

Do your kids love their cousins? Because cousins may just be one of the best things ever.

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On De-junking

February 21st, 2012 | by Anne | 6 Comments

It’s that time again. The fluorescent mailer came a few weeks ago, and I promptly taped it to the fridge and marked my calendar. In a mere 48 hours, the donation truck for a local charity will be in my neighborhood, and they need my usable clothes and household items! Time to go through the drawers, clean out the closets, pick through the toys. To put it as only Wade could, “It’s like a B M for the house.”

The past few weeks my mom’s been on a clean-out kick of her own. While that means I score some sweet hand-me-down tablecloths and my great-grandmother’s high heels, it also means I have to part with childhood treasures that have worn out their welcome in the family attic.

Last Friday, my mom, two of my sisters, and I made an afternoon of it—sorting through old dance formals in an explosion of taffeta and sequins, discarding ratty Barbie dolls, and sending Cabbage-Patch Kids to the thrift store in search of their missing shoes. Going through our old things was like going back in time. Each decision of what to save and what to let go made our little-girl selves feel both closer and farther away.

Because I was feeling brave, we even tackled the box of my childhood clothes that has waited in vain for a daughter of my own. And it’s good to know that the pink knitted sweater fits one of my nieces and the smocked blue dress fits another, and the tiny pink shoes will be easy to store while they wait for a granddaughter.

For me, cleaning things out is bittersweet. I love the liberation (not to mention closet space) that comes with chucking the junk. I speed away from the thrift store dropoff singing Michael Jackson’s “She’s Out of My Life” in mock tribute. But then sometimes it’s hard to let go, and I feel like I’m not just parting with things but with the intentions, relationships, and experiences those things have come to represent.

I try to remember it’s what my old things were to me then that makes me who I am now. De-junking just helps make room for a new collection of treasures.

Are you a chucker or a saver? How do you decide what to keep?

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Many Hands Make Light Work

February 20th, 2012 | by Melissa | 12 Comments

A few months ago my friend Emily asked me if I wanted to join her project group.  She and three other women met at one of their homes once a week to work on projects for each other and she thought I might like to join them.  I was really excited about it until she told me that the next week we would meet at my house.

I’d heard of other project groups who would get together and reupholster each other’s furniture or paint murals on walls just for funzies.  As I thought about what sort of fun project we could do together at my house, I couldn’t see past all the cleaning that needed to be done.  I thought of the least disgusting project I had and emailed the other women to tell them they could help me switch out my children’s clothing for the cold weather.  Emily called and said, “I think you’re holding out on us.  Just make a list of everything that you want to get done and we’ll see what we can do.”

I took a look around my house and the list in my head grew longer and longer.  Clean the tub.  Mop the floors.  Clean the stove.  Vacuum.  Dust.  That’s what I really wanted to get done and once I realized how filthy my house was, I started making a list of excuses I could use for not having project group at my house that day.  The kids are sick.  We just fumigated.  Something suddenly came up.  The idea of having friends see my house in such a state filled me with embarrassment.  The idea of having my friends help me clean it up filled me with shame.

I don’t know why it’s always been hard for me to ask for help.  Pride, I guess.  The truth is that I don’t think I should need help.  I’m not bedridden or grieving or in any other condition that prohibits me from cleaning my own house.  I should be able to do it all on my own, with the help of my husband and children.  I have no problem asking them for help, but it’s not someone else’s job to come do my household chores.  These were the thoughts that were going through my mind that day as I prepared for the dreaded moment when my new project group arrived on my doorstep.

Then I paused a moment to consider how I would feel about cleaning one of their houses.  I realized I would happily scrub any of their bathtubs, or stoves, or floors.  (And in the past few months, I have.)  So, I let them in.  Emily scrubbed my bathtub while Shauna swept my floors and Laura cleaned my kitchen.  Our children played happily and within two hours, my house was clean and I felt 50 lbs. lighter.  I have learned from them that friendship means letting someone see you without your makeup on while you scrub their toilet.

A few weeks ago I allowed these women to see the seedy underbelly of my house and they helped me clean and organize my basement.  Every time I go downstairs, I smile and think of how wonderful it is to have friends.  Maybe I could have done it on my own, but it would have taken weeks and it wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.  (It was fun sifting through every piece of scrapbook paper and paint bottle, right Mandi?)

I think sometimes as women we feel we’re competing with each other to see who can seem more put together, more “with it.”  Those who appear to be getting it all done and doing it well make the rest of us feel we’ll never measure up.  The truth is that no one has it all together.  I’ve seen how much a small group of women working together can accomplish in the space of two hours and it’s pretty awesome (especially with our combined eight children running around).  Accepting help from others doesn’t mean you’re weak, it means you’re blessed.

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The “Good Mom” Dichotomy

February 17th, 2012 | by Friday Feature | 15 Comments

Heather is best described by the classic U2 line as someone who is “trying to throw her arms around the world”.  She is married to her best friend, Michael.  Together they are attempting to help six children become contributing members of society.  When she gets on her soap box, it usually has something to do with her passion for public education or the need for children to pick up after themselves.  People are her number one hobby.  You could visit her blog, but all you will find is the really great wallpaper she added two years ago.

I once asked my mother, “When you think back, do you have any regrets about how you were as a mom?”  The question was sincere, because I had only been at it a few years myself and was already full of regret.  She considered the question for about 5 seconds and then responded matter-of-factly, “No, not really.”   Her response was so unexpected; I didn’t know what to say.  I wanted to follow up with “Really? Not any regrets, any at all?”  But I didn’t.  I just left it at that.

Not long after my conversation with my mother, I moved to a new neighborhood.  A neighbor invited me to join her at the library story hour.  I had been a few weeks prior and wasn’t too impressed: a didactic story about a bear and fifty moms socializing the whole time.  But I said, “Yes, I’d love to go!”  Because that is what good moms do.  They take their kids to library story hour.  I remember running around that morning and yelling at my kids.  Yelling for them to hurry, and get dressed, and clean up, and stop fighting before my neighbor came to the door (and could hear me yelling).  And it was then that it dawned on me that in an effort to LOOK like a really good mom, I was being a pretty bad one.

I decided right then and there that I could waste a lot of time trying to LOOK like a good mom or I could spend my time focusing on ACTUALLY being a good mom.  I didn’t have time for both.  And though you might think the two categories might have some overlap, they really don’t, because children are better than bloodhounds when it comes to sniffing out motive.  I have found that any parenting done under any false pretense is actually counter-productive.

That decision has changed me as a mom.  I stopped worrying about always making sure my children left the house looking like they belonged in Baby Gap advertisement.  I resisted the urge to follow any parenting fad just because all the other moms in playgroup were doing it.  I didn’t feel the need to put my children in every activity and sport and have them be the very best at it.  I refused to stress about bringing the cutest Valentines or the best birthday treat.  In fact, birthdays became a day to celebrate my child, not a time to prove I could pull off the best party or make the greatest cake.

I worried less about my perception as a mother and more about my influence in helping my children develop their own autonomy.  As a result, I let go of needing to make every decision for them.  I was able to let them fail and learn from the experience.  I let them help with things even though the final product wasn’t perfection.  I am pretty sure this how my mom mothered me as a child and, perhaps, is part of the reason she looks back without any guilt or hesitation that she did it right.

And, I admit I’m still not perfect at letting go of the perfect mom image.  It’s still hard for me when someone stops by and my house is a mess.  There are days when I jump in and fix the school project or do a little adjusting when my first grader puts in eight eclectic hair accessories.    But when my kids get ready for church by themselves and we make it there on time only to realize that one of them has substituted his church shoes for red snow boots, I don’t get mad or feel embarrassed.  Instead, I just smile and think, “Perfect!  No regrets.”

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I will always love yooooooooooooouuuu

February 16th, 2012 | by Liz | 6 Comments

When we were growing up, my best friend Steffani loved Anne Murray songs. I know this because she sang them a lot and always knew the words.

The only thing that is curious about this random fact is that Anne Murray’s heyday was about 15-20 years before our time. Steffani loved Anne Murray because her Mom loves Anne Murray. She grew up listening to “Can I have this Dance for the Rest of my life” and “You Needed Me” and the like. Come to think of it, lots of Steff’s favorites could play like a “Best of the 60s and 70s” CD.

It was when I was living with Steffani and her family that I realized the powerful impact of music on a family environment. Steff’s mom, it seemed, was constantly humming something as she cooked in the kitchen or worked on the computer. From her I learned to love and trust people who hum and sing a lot. You just can’t hum a happy tune and be in a bad mood. And along with a deepened appreciation for Anne Murray, I realized there that singing the songs your parents love remind you of the best memories of your growing up.

Flash forward a decade or two. On a winter day in early January, I stopped by my then-boyfriend Trent’s house who lived at home with his mom and dad. As I rang the doorbell I could hear the beat of lively music pulsing from inside the house. Trent’s mom answered the door a little out of breath.

“Oh Liz!” she said enthusiastically. “Come on in! I’ll go get Trent!”

As she ushered me inside I noticed she was in the process of taking down all of the Christmas decorations. There were a myriad of boxes and bins all over the entry way and bits and pieces of Christmas decor were in various states of being prepared for their year long hibernation.

“Sorry this stuff is everywhere,” she said as the music pulsed around us. “It’s been my goal to get it all put away before the afternoon passes, but I get too distracted dancing to Tina Turner.”

I know–totally awesome, right?

Because of his mother’s delightful musical influence, Trent loves Tina, Carole King, the Carpenters, and the Osmond Brothers. He loves the Carpenters.  This man of mine cannot tell you who the heck Duran Duran is, cannot name one singer in “We Are the World,” and cannot name a Culture Club song (He really missed the 80s. Except Lionel Richie. Weird) can sing every line of the music of his parents’ generation.

And now we come to the present day, in the Liz and Trent household. A couple of years ago, I watched with great devotion the comeback story of Whitney Houston on Oprah. Both days of it. I cried. I called Trent telling him that the girl I loved, the singer of “The Greatest Love of All” had come back to us, and she was lookin’ good.

Let me just confess this now, once and for all, truly and unequivocally, I love Whitney. I loooooove her. I can name you all of her songs and the jr. high crushes that I still think of when I hear those songs. I love Whitney’s face, her voice, and her awesome sparkly outfits. And when news of her death hit the internet earlier this week, our house went into mourning.

After the Oprah special, I experienced a Whitney revival via ITunes and listened with all the prior devotion of my teenage heart to favorites like:  “Didn’t We Almost Have it All” and “One Moment in Time” and “How Will I Know” and “You’re Still My Man” and more.

And as I played them at full blast, singing along to every line, Lillian watched with great interest. I could tell that she was feeling a little Whitney love herself. I figure, someday 20 years from now when Lillian is driving in the car with the sunroof down, rocking out to “How Will I Know?” her friends might look at her like she’s crazy until she tells them, “My mother listens to Whitney Houston. She loves her and so do I.”

And that, my friends, is the greatest love of all.

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Reality Check

February 15th, 2012 | by Ashley | 4 Comments

The other day I had a doctor’s appointment. It surprises me how quickly time is going by–especially since I’m on the fast track and seeing my doctor every two weeks now. It was a routine visit–everything is going well. My doctor reminded me how rapidly the baby will gain weight from now on and we talked about the date that is scheduled for the birth. My doctor said that one nice thing about a scheduled birth is knowing the exact date. “But you never know,” he continued, “your water could break. But as of now, the date we have set is looking good and on track for you.” I shook his hand and smiled as he told me to have a good day. But as I gathered my purse and coat, I thought, “What? My water could break? That happens to people? This baby could potentially come sooner?”

Uh oh.

All during last fall’s busy birthday season and the holidays, I kept telling myself that I would start getting ready for the baby in January. I pictured myself making some cute things for him–like knitting a sweater or blanket while it gently snowed outside. And then I would get everything ready. But the snow never came and January uncharacteristically flew by. And now here I am in the middle of February without a dang thing ready for this baby. Oh, I told Cody to find a good dresser that our boys can share and he’s found a couple of options. I ordered Cameron some new church clothes and threw in some onesies and sleepers. I took them straight out of the box and stuffed them into a hanging shoe caddy in Cameron’s closet. I bought some minky fabric to make some blankets that is still folded in a neat pile on my sewing counter. And I finished knitting a pair of bunnies. Yep–the two little bunnies that were supposed to go into the kids’ Easter baskets last year finally got finished. Although instead of knitting a dress for one, they both got hoodies and are now “The Bunny Brothers.” Cameron picks them up and says, “Oh bunnies. Good job Mommy.” And while that is kind of cute, having a pair of knitted bunnies does not in the least make me feel prepared for the arrival of a new baby.

I’ve only got six more weeks at the most. I better get serious about organizing the clothes I have and purchasing a car seat. Not to mention diapers, wipes, bottles, burp cloths, and every other little thing a baby might need. Isn’t that so-called “nesting” instinct supposed to kick in by now? I better get busy (and not with knitting small stuffed animals.)

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During

February 14th, 2012 | by Anne | One Comment

Are you a sucker for “before” and “after” pictures like I am? I love looking through magazines at remodeled spaces or browsing pictures of renovated faces. It’s amazing to see how much people and things can change.

But I also sometimes find myself bristling at such images, images which suggest transformation comes with the swipe of a screen or the turn of a page. “Before” and “after” pictures really leave out the whole story—the messy and magical details of how change takes place. They leave out the “during.”

I took this picture a few years ago as an homage to the “during” of one of my many haphazard home-improvement projects. Not exactly magazine material.

After painting the cupboard in my postage-stamp sized bathroom, I woke up the next morning to discover I’d used the wrong kind of paint—so wrong I could pull it off with my hands. A week or so and double-the-cost later, after sanding, priming, and two more coats of paint, I had a better sense of what the “during” for this project actually required.

Currently, I’m in the “during” phase of getting back in shape post-baby. It’s a project that began with Crest Whitestrips, ends with a half marathon, and has a whole lot of spinach salads in between. Staring down the time and effort this will take is daunting, sometimes discouraging. But I’m trying to remember the time that’s passing will pass. At the end of it I can be the same as I am now, or I can be closer to who I want to be. The doing’s in the during.

What changes do you want to make? How do you stay motivated?

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REVEALED: The Secret to My Decade of Wedded Bliss

February 13th, 2012 | by Melissa | 22 Comments

This week Jeff and I will be celebrating our 10th wedding anniversary.  We’re very proud to have reached this milestone (That’s 50.68 Kardashians!) and wanted to commemorate the day with something special.  So Jeff suggested we take our relationship to the next level and exchange gifts.  The minute he said it, my heart started racing and my hands got clammy.  “Gifts?!” I asked.  “For each other?!  I guess after ten years we out to be grown up enough to do that, huh?”

Gift giving has not always gone well for us.  It began the Christmas we were engaged when we decided to be super low key and make each other gifts.  In Jeff’s mind, that meant raiding his mother’s art supplies and making me something adorable and cost-free.  In my mind, it meant getting my mom to sew him a quillow (You know, a quilt that folds up into a pillow?) and crotcheting him a wool hat so thick he would only ever need it on a year-long expedition in the Arctic.  That was the year we discovered how difficult it is to exchange gifts.

We’ve tried many different approaches to this situation.  We’ve made each other lists, bought our own gifts and put the other person’s name on it, but most years we give the gift of not having to exchange gifts.  I’ve already mentioned on this blog the Pink Guitar Debacle of 2006 (A.K.A. Snowglobe Showdown).  What I conveniently failed to mention back then is that I am a horrible gift giver.  The worst.  Especially when it comes to gifts for Jeff.  I can think of few presents I have given Jeff that he has truly loved and many he has truly hated.

After we had been married about a year, I almost forgot Jeff’s birthday.  I was working full-time during the day and we were rehearsing a play in the evenings.  I was also in my first trimester of pregnancy.  By the time I remembered, his birthday was the next morning and every store was closed except a 24-hour Eckerd’s Drugstore.  No doubt, if I had to get him a gift at a drugstore today, I could find something decent.  But nine years ago in my exhausted and panicked state all I could come up with was this:

FAQ’s About This Gift:

Q. What is it?

A. It’s a leprechaun mug.  Based on its size and molding, I don’t believe it was meant to be used for drinking.  I’m pretty sure its intended purpose is to hold a bouquet of mini balloons and silk shamrocks to give to your dear friend who is recovering from hip replacement surgery.

Q. Is it dishwasher and microwave oven safe?

A. Yes.

Q. Is Jeff Irish?

A. No.

Q. Does his birthday fall near St. Patrick’s Day?

A. No.

Q. Do the two of you have some cutesie inside joke about leprechauns?

A. We do now.

Q. Has Jeff ever used this mug?

A. Maybe once as a joke.

Q. This mug makes me feel scared inside.  Is that normal?

A. Absolutely it is.

Not to worry.  My gift giving has improved over the years.  How could it not?  And that’s where I would like to make my point.  Jeff and I set the bar so very low for gift giving that every year we exceed one another’s expectations.  That’s the secret to our ten years of wedded bliss.  I know people who go on a cruise to celebrate their first anniversary and I can’t think of a worse idea.  Where are you supposed to go from there?  For your second anniversary, a trip around the world?  Then by your fifth anniversary, you’ll have to buy yourselves a couple of seats on an international space station just to top your previous celebrations.   My advice?  Take it slow, kids.  Keep your partner’s expectations low as they go.  If you really want to show you care, buy your love a creepy mug this Valentine’s Day and see how thrilled he is when you give him socks next year.

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Dear Science Fair Projects . . .

February 10th, 2012 | by Friday Feature | 12 Comments

Allyn lives in the city of Norfolk, Virginia with her husband and six children.  She is an advocate for public school, even in the city of Norfolk.  She loves music, art, crafts, the outdoors, the indoors, and her moments of silence.

Dear Science Fair Projects,

You may or may not realize this, but not everyone in the world loves you.  I hate to be the one to tell you this.  The fact of the matter is, I break out into hives come November. That is when my children come home with the format defining each of the many points that must be presented in the final presentation of you.  My children either sweat and anguish over the title, the hypothesis, the experiment, the carrying out of experiment, the arrangement of the pages on the project board or they don’t care about it.   And we sweat about this for two entire months.  Which brings me to my actual complaint:  Why must all of my children carry out a science fair project?!   Does a third grader really need to do this?  Does the same third grader need to complete an entirely different project when he is in fourth grade and then another entirely different project AGAIN in fifth grade?  I just don’t think that this has been thoroughly thought through.

In my particular circumstances, for example, I have a third grader and a fifth grader and a seventh grader. The seventh grader has a project in each of her seven classes due each week between thanksgiving and Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.   Do you see where this is going?  Of course, I realize the children should be doing their own work and that I really should not be a factor in this equation, but this is not a perfect world.  First grader+Third grader+fifth grader+seventh grader does not equal momdoingnothing.

This is all my fault, though.  I should have thought of this before my husband and I threw caution to the wind and sired all these children.  We should have formed a hypothesis then predicted what could possibly hinder our had a having children born so closely together (If we were to have six children each 20 months apart, they would all be in school at the same time and would all have science fair projects due at the same time. ). Then we should have carried out the experiment and taken careful notes on the data that we acquired.   After twelve or thirteen years of collecting that data we would be able to make a more educated/scientifically sound decision knowing the outcome.  “Let’s wait and space them out three or four years apart.  That way we can still have as many children as we want, but won’t have to do five science fair projects in one year.”

Why can’t we go back to the good ole days when students could choose whether or not to participate in the science fair?  Not all students are science fair project inclined.  My findings suggest that one out of every six children loves science fair projects.  The other five need their parents to push, pull, carry out, and type, the project out of them.  So, if you are afraid that no one will participate in your little contest to see whose parent has the best computer graphic skills, don’t be. You will still have you participants, and the teachers’ work will be cut by 83%.  Because I am not totally opposed to having my children extend their brains and work for something, perhaps we could just ask that each student carry out any project they like at any time throughout the year.  They could choose which subject it applies to and what to do for the project.

No, I don’t have all the answers, but I do have one answer for you:

Make it optional.

That’s all I’m saying.

Warmest regards,

Despiser of Science Fair Projects

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Our first D-T-R (“define-the-relationship”) Talk

February 9th, 2012 | by Liz | 5 Comments

This was me, about 10 minutes after Trent proposed. The look of shock is not posed.

On any given day, at any given time, I’m more than likely to tell anyone within earshot that I am married to the nicest, kindest man that ever drew breath. And more than likely anyone within earshot will agree most heartily with me. In fact, I rather like the description my sister once gave of Trent: when he smiles at you, it’s like the sun shining through a cloudy sky. To know Trent is to love him. To be loved by him is, well, like feeling the sun shine.

Dating Trent, however, was another story entirely. I’ve often likened dating my husband to trying to climb backward up a giant slide. From our first date forward, every natural inclination I had screamed “THIS IS THE ONE!” but I knew darn well that sharing that information with Trent would sound a death toll on our budding romance. After all, I was dating someone who had managed to stay single for 33 years; someone who, when I met him, seemed perfectly content with his single status; someone who made it very clear that we’d be dating a LONG time before he considered saying the “L” word (as in, I Love You), let alone considering something as lasting and binding as marriage.

Thus, as the months passed and Trent and I continued dating, I found myself doing the delicate and complicated dance that most singles know all too well: you may love him, you may want to date him exclusively, you may be—as Olivia Newton John sang so heartily—hopelessly devoted to him—but heaven forbid that you let him know you feel that way. The best way to act when dating a commitment-wary single man is to let him know you always have other options, and if he wants to hang out with you, that’s cool, but no big deal if he doesn’t.

Sometimes, I was really good at playing it cool. Sometimes, my roommates and friends had to talk me down from my mental wall climbing, and then I could play it cool. And once or twice, I lost my sense of cool and tried to cajole Trent into defining our relationship.

The DTR talk was something Trent absolutely abhorred. My attempts at the DTR went something like this:

Me: “So, I got a phone call from my friend Jonathan last night.”

Trent: “Oh yeah? I don’t think you’ve told me about him before.”

Me: “Well, he’s a guy I went out with a couple of times before I met you. He asked me out again…I was thinking I’d like to go…I mean, unless you feel like we’re not going to date other people…”

Trent (now smirking sardonically and grasping my hand in sarcastic tenderness): “Oh, do you want to talk about our relationship?”

Me (defeated): “Nope. Not at all.”

In his defense, Trent now tells me at the time he was thinking something along the lines of “assume that I want to be with you because I am with you. That’s all the defining we need to do.” Awesome, right?

And so, I kept my mouth shut. For almost two years. And then–one beautiful autumn October evening following a night at the opera, Trent got down on one knee and pulled out a diamond ring and asked me to marry him. It was the one and only time in my entire life I’ve ever been so surprised that I was rendered totally speechless.

When I came to my senses and said something like, “Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes YES!” Trent sat next to me, put his arms around me, and said (I swear), “Let’s talk about our relationship. Let’s talk about our future. Let’s talk about getting married and kids and our family and everything!”

I turned to him, stunned, and said, “Naw. Let’s not. I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

the happily engaged couple

And that’s the story of our first and only Define-The-Relationship Talk. Just thinking about it still makes me smile.

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My First Valentine

February 8th, 2012 | by Ashley | One Comment

This post isn’t about my first Valentine ever. My mom always gave me really cute Valentines and I always came home from elementary school with a box of Valentines on Valentine’s Day. A boy in high school once gave me a bouquet of pink roses for Valentine’s Day–but I thought we were just friends. One time while I was standing around with some friends in my university’s Institute building, I was given a rose from a secret admirer because one of the LDS sororities (an oxymoron, I know) was doing a fundraiser by delivering roses for secret admirers. I should have been flattered, but I was convinced it was from the dorky guy in green jeans standing by the piano. So I got out of there pretty darn fast.

No, this is about my first Valentine from the first guy I was completely crazy about–my first real Valentine.

Cody and I got engaged on February 12th, 2000. He came home from Utah State for the weekend with a ring in his pocket on Friday, and asked me to marry him on Saturday. But on Sunday, he had to leave again for Logan and I realized that I would be spending the first-Valentine’s Day-of-my-life-that-ever-counted by myself. Oh well.

So I went to school and then headed to work at my dad’s office. I spent the afternoon running errands and dropping off bank deposits. Around four o’clock, my dad called me while I was driving to go over the next errand when all of a sudden he said, “Here’s Cody. Looks like he’s got some flowers for you.” When my errands were finished, I rushed back to discover that yes indeed, Cody had dropped off flowers and a Valentine. Inside the card he left was an invitation to dinner and some play tickets. But best of all was the fact that instead of going back up to school, he stayed behind to surprise me. I was pretty happy.

I still have that card and the stubs to those tickets. I’ve kept them in a heart-shaped tin box and over the years, the box has been stuffed with more Valentines. Not only have I kept every Valentine that Cody has ever given me, but now the box is full of Valentines to and from the kids as well. Every year, we love to pull it out and read them all over again–except for the Cars card that plays a broken track of “Life Is a Highway” over and over. We had to finally hide that one . . .

Cody may never be able to beat the surprise of that first Valentine, but he sure has tried. Every year I get to look forward to something fantastic and awesome and every year I feel just as happy and excited as I did on that first Valentine’s Day together.

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First Kiss

February 7th, 2012 | by Anne | 4 Comments

God willing, my first love will also be my last. I married the boy up the street, the boy who hung out with my brother and turned my dolls into dry ice bombs, the boy who gave me my first kiss.

I was sixteen, Wade was seventeen. While he was the sole object of my abundant (if unspoken) affection, I was on the shortlist of girls he was interested in at the time. It’s pretty safe to assume that kiss after our choir Christmas concert meant more to me than it did to him.

What follows is an excerpt from my 11-page journal entry dated January 14, 1996. For the full effect, picture frilly cursive in a rose-smattered diary. And yes, this story includes a hamster . . . Eunice was a loathed gift from my secret choir buddy which Wade was happy to take off my hands.

Wade’s recollections of the evening fall more along the lines of tight lips, A-frame hugs, and the cool hamster he got to take home.

The good news is that we understand each other better now.

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The First of My Firsts

February 6th, 2012 | by Melissa | 18 Comments

This week we’ll be sharing our “first” experiences with love.  I couldn’t decide which of my firsts to share with you—my first love, my first kiss, my first restraining order . . .  As I’ve been thinking about the many fantastic details of my love life, I find that the one thing I want to write about is the one thing I can’t remember.

My husband Jeff and I met at a church dance when we were fourteen . . . probably.  We’re 78% sure this is true.  I remember bits and pieces of a conversation with him in which he introduced himself to me. This conversation most likely took place at a dance.  These are the only details I have of our first meeting.

If I had Doc Brown’s DeLorean, the first thing I would do with it is travel back in time to that dance.  (The second thing I would do is steal a Sports Almanac from the future.)  I would memorize what song was playing when I asked him to dance.  (Let’s be honest.  There’s no way he asked me.)  I would listen in on our conversation and watch the sparks fly.

How we met has been the one piece of our relationship puzzle that’s been missing.  Now we’ll never be able to shellac that sucker and hang it on the wall.  How you met your significant other is something people like to ask you and we’ve learned over the years that vague stories don’t get you invited back for a second couple date.  So without the benefit of a time machine, we’ve had to make up the tiny details of our meet cute.  The story gets longer every time we tell it.

I don’t remember how we met, but I remember the first time we sat and talked as friends.  I could have talked with him for days.  I remember the first time I felt an honest-to-goodness tingle up my spine when he touched my hand.  I remember when I realized I wanted to be his girlfriend and kiss him on the mouth, but I couldn’t say anything because he had a girlfriend and was leaving to spend two years in Brazil.  (That’s just bad timing.)  I remember two years later when I bravely poured out my heart and told him how I felt.  I remember our first kiss (worst kiss, ever) and our second kiss (best kiss, ever).  I remember when he first told me he loved me and I answered “Good.”  because in my mind we had already been in love FOR-EV-ER.  (To be fair, his exact words were “I think I’m falling in love with you.” and not “I love you.”  I’ve spent the last ten years telling him there’s a difference.)  I remember our first apartment, our first child, our first tragedy, our first move, and everything important in between.

So I may not remember the first of our firsts, but somehow not knowing exactly how it all began makes it feel like our love is truly eternal.  (Did you just throw up little when I said that?  Sorry.  What can I say?  I’m in love.)

How did you and your love first meet?

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Music to My Ears

February 3rd, 2012 | by Friday Feature | 5 Comments

Jennifer is a piano teacher living in rural Vermont with her husband and four sons.

This year I am celebrating my 20th year as a private piano teacher.  It has been a privilege to spend weekly one-on-one time with the hundreds of students who have passed through my doors, and a joy to see them grow.  For the most part, my students have been willing learners who practice and seem to enjoy playing.  For the most part….

Somewhere along the way I noticed a trend with the parents who approached me for lessons.  There were the parents who would say “I am looking for a teacher for my child…” and the others who would say “My child has expressed an interest in playing the piano…”  The students who express an interest on their own and inspire their parents to make that phone call are always uncontainable.  They learn quickly and they love it.  They make me feel like a race car driver just trying to keep the wheels on the ground while we fly around the track at lightning speed.  If it wasn’t their idea you might get lucky, but don’t be surprised if there are tears and frustration involved.    Those are the kids who look me in the eye and kick me in the shins while exclaiming their hatred for the piano.  Tears for everybody! (Ok, I admit that only happened once, but it made an impression!)

I would wonder at the logic of these parents.  “Why are they doing this?  They are wasting their time and money.  It’s more work for everybody…..Blah blah blah”.   I would self righteously scoff at them while blatantly ignoring my own dirty little secret- I am one of those parents.  That’s right.  I totally get it.  You have a vision for your children and family and come hell or high water your vision will be realized.  For me, if it meant that I would have to turn my body into a human piano bench, lock them in and mold my hands around theirs while they screamed in my ears to get them to practice, so be it.  If it meant that I would be throwing time and money down the toilet with the hope that something would take hold someday, so be it.  No child of MINE was going to regret not learning to play.

Surprisingly, that approach didn’t last long.  None of us had the stamina.  We tried going to different teachers but the bottom line was this:  they just weren’t interested.  So I gave them all a choice- pick another instrument and commit to it, or its back to the piano with Mom (mwhahahaha!!).  They wasted no time choosing instruments that I don’t know how to play at all and we agreed that the Tiger Mom would be allowed to enforce practices but not participate.  Peace is restored and the house is full of the music I envisioned (well… sort of), but will we regret it?  Will I roll my old lady eyes when they ask me why I didn’t make them play the piano, or will I suffer and cry the tears that my failure deserves?  Time will tell, but for now I admit, I am expressing an interest in Peace.   Maybe I will write a song about it.

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Adjusting

February 2nd, 2012 | by Liz | 3 Comments

The first night after Lillian was born I had a crazy nurse. She was an older woman with a thick accent, expert in her care of Lillian and totally oblivious to me. Now, that is really not as sad as it sounds. I didn’t want much to do with her, nor she with me. Our arrangement worked out fine for both of us. Well, sort of.

Being the brand new mom that I was, I wanted to do what I was supposed to do (still do, in fact). In my mind, what I was supposed to do was have Lillian in the room with me. I was supposed to nurse her expertly from the first moment we laid eyes upon each other. I was supposed to be awesome.

Well. I was not awesome, nor did I end up having Lillian in the room with me over night. When that nurse brought Lillian into my room for a feeding at 2:30 a.m., try as I might, I couldn’t figure out how to feed her. And so, I lied.

Let the truth now be known. I lied my face off. The nurse came back in asked how it all went and I said it went great and told her to take the baby back to the nursery.

She took Lillian and I tried to fall back asleep. But I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep because I hadn’t fed my baby, and I couldn’t sleep because I didn’t know how to and even though I knew she wasn’t going to starve to death, I knew I had a long road ahead in trying to figure it all out. And I was so scared I was going to be a miserable failure.

Fast forward a couple of months. One night as I sat rocking Lillian back to sleep, waves of emotion washed over me. I felt hopelessly inept, wondering when I’d feel like I was “good” at this mothering thing, when it would feel more familiar and less scary. It was then that the thought occurred to me that I’d been through periods of adjustment before. My first year after my mission. My first year of teaching. My first year in New York. What I know about adjustment and change is that figuring it out happens slowly, but you do eventually find your way. And when you do, it becomes easy. In fact, every single time, I’ve learned to love that which initially was so difficult.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about those initial days and months of adjusting to my first child, most likely because I’m adjusting once again, this time to two children. The learning curve at times feels just as steep and just as intense. Just today I sent my sister a text message that said something like, “tell me this gets easier.” She wrote back with a promise that indeed, it did; that in time I’d forget what I thought was so difficult; that in time I’d be just fine.

I know she’s right. I’ve experienced it before. I laugh now (with compassion) as I look back at the new mommy fighting sleep in that hospital room who had just lied to the nurse.  There’s so much I’d try to tell her now, if I could.

I would try to tell her convincingly enough for her to believe me that taking care of her newborn daughter wasn’t nearly as scary as it seemed. I’d tell her that life as she knew it was about to change forever, and that was okay, too. Most importantly, I would tell her she didn’t have to be perfect right now.

But maybe I’d let her figure all that out for herself. Maybe the best thing would be to just tell her that it was all going to be okay and to get some sleep. Because sometimes you lie to nurses. And that’s okay, too.

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My Girl

February 1st, 2012 | by Ashley | 6 Comments

Abby's box set collection. We have another one on the way . . .

A mother/daughter relationship can be so complicated.

I once read a great essay about being the mother of boys. It was full of insight into why boys do what they do, and how they relate to their mothers. However, the essay also pointed out (a bit tongue in cheek) that no such essay can be written about daughters. There are no rules. Anything you thought you knew about being a female human being is thrown out the window when your daughter comes to town. You are emotional–she is emotional. You will bring out the very best and the very worst in each other. Good luck.

At the time I read that essay, I was expecting Abby. When I went in for my ultrasound and was told I was having a baby girl, I felt two very distinct emotions. The first was relief–I was having a daughter. I would get to have a daughter and we would be friends and she would take care of me when I am old someday. The next feeling was panic. Oh no! I’m having a daughter! She’s going to hate me and slam her bedroom door in my face and we are going to fight. She won’t want to be anything like me and I will expect her to be everything like me.

As I will soon have more boys around the house, I am trying to sit back and cherish everything about Abby that I love. She is growing up so fast, and yet is still my baby girl. But she is very different from me. Her emotions overfloweth–I could use some. She loves making new friends and playing with friends. I prefer to be alone. She’s competitive and adventurous. I am not. Sometimes I feel like our differences outnumber anything we have in common. But I know that isn’t necessarily true. And I’m reminded of this every night when the day is done, the brother is asleep, and we get to sit on Abby’s bed while I read to her.

We’ve been reading the American Girl historical books for over a year now. We’ve read about girls growing up in the 1970s, 1850s, 1930s, early 1900s, 1820s, and the 1940s. We’ve ended up making inside jokes about certain characters and laughing out loud about some of the funny situations the girls find themselves in. We’ve ended up talking about the Depression, being poor, being a girl, what it would be like if your parents were divorced, or how hard it can be to be a sister. One of the Christmas stories made me cry and Abby had to get me a tissue. We now also celebrate Chinese New Year because of one of the books, and we’ve learned a little Spanish because one of the series is set in early New Mexico.

I’m learning that Abby and I both love stories. We both are interested in history. But most of all, I’m learning that Abby needs my time and attention. So no matter how tired I am or how irritated I am with her, I make it a priority to read to her. Just the other night after I had spent what felt like an hour yelling at her to clean up the toy room, get ready for bed, listen to me when I’m talking, and to stop rolling her eyes at me or crying, I still sat on her bed with her and we read about Molly who’s growing up during WWII. I then tucked her in and said, “Good night American girl.” It was cheesy, but Abby smiled and gave me a great big hug. And I realized how happy–how absolutely happy I am to have a girl.

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Clean Up!

January 31st, 2012 | by Anne | 5 Comments

You know the “Cleanup” song from Barney? Well at our house sometimes it feels like we live by an adapted version:

I’m trying to teach my boys householdish skills so my future daughters-in-law won’t resent me, but the past few months I’ve opted for peace over enforcement (i.e., I’ve become maid service).

Now I’m starting to feel a little better, and last Saturday I warned the troops I was “on one” and they’d better watch out. I had them taking out garbages, cleaning the playroom, and in timeout for the slightest displays of noncompliance. I’ve even reinstated my mom’s old tactic of confiscating clutter littering the hallways and selling it back at 25 cents an item.

Tired of the mess

The truth is, my cleanliness standards aren’t even very high. I think of myself as a tidy slob. If and when the house is straight, the pillows are plumped, the decorations futzed, and the countertops gleam like whited sepulchers. But you should probably be careful opening a closet door. Every few months I go on an organization kick, buying Sterilite containers, labeling and meticulously stacking them in cupboards. Inevitably, six weeks later I’m dumping the contents of the same containers onto the floor while I rummage for a nail file. Our hidden spaces are a monument to the Second Law of Thermodynamics, the one about increasing disorder.

It’s also true that if the house is too clean I’m as tense as when it’s in chaos. I resent the footprints on a newly scrubbed floor, the dishes in a freshly bleached sink, the homework piled on a barely cleared table. Sometimes I’m afraid I think more about cleaning up our life than living it.

What about you? Is there such a thing as too clean? How do you teach your kids to help around the house?

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My Life is a Stage

January 30th, 2012 | by Melissa | 11 Comments

I graduated from college with a B.A. in Communications.  My concentration was in “performance studies” and all of that is just a fancy way of saying that I played around in the theater for a few years and then they gave me a diploma.  Once I got out into the world and began looking for a job I remember wishing I had chosen something more practical as my major.  Something like accounting or animal husbandry or something else with a clear career path.

The other day I was yelling out ten minute, five minute, and two minute warnings to help keep my children focused on getting Harrison out the door and to school on time.  It reminded me of moments I spent as a stage manager.  I took a look at my life and realized that all of my dilly-dallying in the theater was great preparation for my role as a mother.

I am the stage manager of my family: keeping track of our schedule, making sure things get done on time, letting everyone know when to turn off the lights and shut the doors.

I am the director: guiding, encouraging, comforting, reminding, and occasionally giving line readings (“What do you say . . .?”).

I am the producer.  Hopefully that one’s self-explanatory.

I am the costume designer, wardrobe supervisor, and dresser: doing my best to keep everyone clothed and occasionally working with major divas.

I am an actor; showing an abundance of enthusiasm for each and every picture drawn, bouquet of weeds picked, and level of Lego Star Wars beaten.  I do all the voices at storytime and my imaginary tea at tea parties always gets great reviews.

I am the props master (They know who to ask when they can’t find their homework.), the set designer (You’d be amazed what a can of spray paint can do to spruce up thrift store furniture.), the stagehand (Someone’s gotta clean up after each performance.), and craft service.  (Kraft service?)

I was thinking the other day about how difficult it can be to be a young woman preparing for the future.  Some women have clear and definite career goals, some hope to stay at home and raise a family, and others would like to do both.  The problem is that if you hope to be a full time mother, studying a certain major doesn’t guarantee you will be able to achieve that goal.  There are no absolutes.  You don’t know if you will get married and, even if you do, there’s no guarantee that you will be able to have children.  So, if you want to be a mommy when you grow up, what do you study to prepare yourself?  As I think about the wonderful mothers I am blessed to know, I see that no matter what they studied in school (be it music, accounting, english literature, art history, sports medicine, business, law, nursing, or what have you) their education makes them better mothers.

My life is a stage and realizing that my education was not completely lacking in practicality has brought me great joy.

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