Superfluous Miscellany

Twenty Years Ago

2012-01-17T08:56:00.000-08:00

January 17, 1992

Jami and Sam were married in the Oakland temple.

It's been a very eventful twenty years. If I'd been married in a standard wedding ceremony, I would have vowed to have and to hold my sweetheart "for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part." We've had better, worse, richer, poorer, sickness and health. We do love and cherish each other, but I am glad that all that work we've put in through the worst, the poverty and the sickness is going to pay off a little longer than until death. (Let's face it the better, richer, healthier times are their own reward.) Our vows are for eternity and distinctly include a third party, our Father in Heaven. Without him, we doubtless would have quit. With him, we have a relationship worth having for eternity.

I don't remember much of the ad lib part of my wedding ceremony, where the man sealing our marriage for time and all eternity gives his thoughts and advice on marriage, but I remember one thing vividly: his testimony of the importance of the atonement of Jesus Christ, of repentance, and of the need to forgive each other as God forgives us. I remember how intensely I felt the Holy Spirit confirm the truth of those words. As I've thought about what to say about a marriage that has weathered the stormy seas, I just want to say to those on those seas that there is joy and sun ahead through the atonement. Truly, God heals. "Whatever Jesus lays his hands upon lives. If Jesus lays his hands upon a marriage, it lives. If he is allowed to lay his hands on the family, it lives."

Don't get me wrong. I love my husband. I enjoy having and holding him. His quirky sense of humor makes me smile. His humility inspires me. His voice melts me. Tonight we are going to ditch our six kids and go do something fun. Even so, our anniversary is a day, just one out of 7,304 so far. I look forward to many more and to an eternity beyond our years.

The Truth Ain't Always Comforting

2012-01-02T10:25:00.000-08:00

My mom died early in the morning on December 21st. Everybody wants to die peacefully in their sleep. Everyone wants to hear that someone they love died easily. I've been lying pretty steadily to my mother's friends and relatives. If you want that, stop reading now. Read my lie and stop: Yes, it was easy and peaceful. I miss her very much.

The truth is: My mother's death was the most horrific thing I have ever witnessed. I have never seen suffering that intense (and I've been a part of 11 drug-free births). Listening to her take her last couple of breaths may well have been the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. I miss her immensely, but no one in their right mind would wish even one more second of life upon my mother.

Her pain control had never been great. On average, I'd say the last two weeks of her life were spent at an 8 on that infernal pain scale. (See here and here for irreverent explanations of the pain scale. Language warning on the second link.) The hospice team took us slowly through a gamut of meds. We started with Norco (a codeine and acetaminophen mix), moved to long-acting morphine pills, then to liquid morphine, Fentanyl patches and finally a Dilaudid IV pump. Each time Vlas, the hospice nurse, visited he would call the doctor and increase the meds. (He advocated for my mom compassionately and aggressively. God bless him.) And none of it worked until we got to the Dilaudid pump. It, combined with six Fentanyl patches, knocked her out and allowed her to rest peacefully. We had the pump for two days.

They give you a booklet that explains the signs of death. Several books actually. And the yvil sister and I read them and read them. A week prior to her death my mother was doing everything that indicated that she could die any minute. (Except the mottling of hands and feet—that woman died with pretty pink hands and feet.) The waiting was excruciating. (I am not a good wait-er under the best of circumstances.) The hardest was the death rattle that went on for days. She would stop breathing for 15-20 seconds several times an hour. I found myself holding my breath with her, hoping there would be no more. Hoping she'd die peacefully in her sleep.

At about 2 am, the death rattle changed. I could tell death was near. I prayed my sister would be able to sleep through it. Not likely. Mom began moaning, and that moan turned into a noise that was as loud as a scream, but not as shrill. After about forty minutes, Y came in.

The Dilaudid pump allowed four extra doses an hour at the press of a button. I have never been so precise before in my life. Fifteen minutes, press. Fifteen minutes, press. I slapped our last Fentanyl patch on her (for a grand total of seven 100 µg per hour patches).

My mom had bought a book, years ago, about how to kill yourself in a dignified manner in the event of an incurable disease. She'd had me read it and asked if I would be very angry if she chose that route. She never got to that point while she was lucid. (Very disturbing, that book.) I pulled that out now. Not to kill her. (I'd already had to reassure Y that Mom would never have wanted her to go to jail for any reason, ever. Even though she'd said "kill me" days before.) I pulled the book out to figure out how much liquid morphine is lethal, so that I could give her as much as I could without actually hastening her death. I quickly determined that liquid morphine was hard to get to a lethal dosage once you've been taking it for a while and that the lethal dosage was quite high, well beyond any amount we could get into her. I began giving the dose that had been prescribed for breakthrough pain, slowly because she couldn't swallow and it had to be absorbed under her tongue. All the while: fifteen minutes, press; fifteen minutes, press; fifteen minutes, press.

Three and a half hours later, the moaning/screaming/death rattling subsided into mere moaning/death rattling. A half an hour after that it stopped altogether.

When she came to confirm death, the hospice nurse asked why we hadn't called for help. They could have increase the dosage of Dilaudid the pump was giving her. In hindsight, we'd had time, but at the time we didn't know.We thought we were minutes away. Additionally, the night hospice team sucked. And the night dispatch nurse sucked even more. (Had a couple of prior attempts at nighttime advice to confirm that one.) It would be an hour before they could get there. And the pump took more than an hour to set up originally. Additionally, we were too busy giving her the pain meds we had and holding her hand.

I felt betrayed by the hospice literature. By all the people who had had sweet peaceful deaths. By everyone who had ever touched my mother medically. I'd never heard of anything like this. I felt like my sister and I were dumped into the middle of a complicated surgery, handed a bunch of scalpels and sutures and told to figure it out. I still am in shock. It's been two weeks and I am still in shock. My mother-in-law hadn't died like that. My aunt hadn't. My uncle hadn't. They all died of similar diseases. If I had some sort of way to forget, I'd take it. But I don't. I get to be sucked back into the memory at random moments. To dream about it.

Finally, I just decided to write it. To get it the heck out of my head. To save innocent bystanders who are politely wondering how I am doing. (The answer to that is just fine, most of the time.) To provide a cautionary tale to others. (Ponder long and hard about dying away from medical personnel. Weight the risks of heinous medical interventions against the risks of dying with a sudden increase in the need for pain meds with all help at least an hour away.)

Don't worry about me. I have an amazing group of friends who have been there for me this whole journey. I will heal. I don't know how many times I will have to tell this story before it loses it's power, but I know that it will. Eventually it will become a memory, instead of a reality. Thank you to those of you who made it this far—thank you for holding my virtual hand while I've told my story.

The Latest CaringBridge Post

2011-12-11T05:44:00.001-08:00

I'm not entirely sure how this next while is going to go, but I think the end is very near. I'm just re-posting the post I wrote for my mom's friends at CaringBridge. Not sure if I'm going to feel like posting like crazy or if my words will be trapped in my head. At least you'll know why.

Hospice

Last month, Mom decided to discontinue chemotherapy and has opted to receive hospice care. Our first meeting took place two weeks ago. Since then we've had a wonderful nurse, Vlas, who has been visiting mom at home and taking care of all of her comfort needs.

We're not sure how much longer we'll have with mom. For the last couple of days, she's not been eating or drinking much, which is a difficult transition for all of us. Vlas--and a bunch of other sources--have assured us that the curbing of her thirst and appetite are perfectly normal end of life developments. She's sleeping a lot too, which is also to be expected.

Pain control has been an issue. They've adjusted the medications several times and seem to be coming to a reasonable level of control. As you pray for us, please pray that she can be comfortable for her remaining time, whether that time is measured in weeks or months. We have felt the power of your prayers many times in this journey, and I know the Lord will answer our earnest prayers.

Thank you so much for all of your love, support and prayers.

Jami

Apropos of Nothing

2011-12-03T08:07:00.001-08:00

Many of you know that I am a convert to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and you may have wondered how the daughter of a Southern-Baptist-turned-nudist-hippy mother learn about a belief system that is so hated by both of the worldviews from whence she came. Saturday morning cartoons, of course.

One morning, little 5-year-old me was watching a teeny tiny black and white TV. A tiny cartoon Donny Osmond sang "Puppy Love," and I fell. Hard. In love with a cartoon boy. Not too long after that I saw the commercial for Donny Osmond's greatest hits and began the beg-a-thon. A successful beg-a-thon. I had the album in my possession at the next gift-giving occasion.

He sang songs about little girls with blue eyes who are much too young to know about love. I wanted to marry him. But he was SO OLD! Would he wait for me to grow up?

For five years, I hoped. Then one day my mom burst my bubble.

"He's Mormon. Mormon's only marry Mormons."

"What?"

"Mormons. It's a religion. Like Catholics or Jews. They only marry people who are in their religion."

"How do I become Mormon? What do they believe?"

"You have to be born a Mormon. I know they aren't allowed to go sleeveless. All their shirts have to have some kind of sleeves."

I cried. A ten year old kid crying because Donny not only was ten years older than she was, but also would never marry her because she was (by this point) Presbyterian. Honestly, my little heart hurt SO much. I can still feel the memory ache today.

Three years later, I'd mostly overcome my puppy love, and one of my mother's facts on Mormons turned out to be false. You don't have to be born a Mormon. My step-mother joined the Mormon church and when I came to visit that summer, asked me if I wanted to meet with the sister missionaries. (Nuns? Mormons have nuns?) Sure. I guess.

Any guesses what my first question was? Yep. Why do Mormons have to wear sleeves? My second was related: What about Marie? She went sleeveless all the time! So my very first piece of legitimate information about the church was about temple garments as explained by two LDS sister missionaries to a bra-less 13-year-old in a tank top. (I'd gotten to the hippy part of my existence.)

Eventually, I joined the church, but the journey was quite rough, worthy of its own blog post (or two).

This story came up the other day, and I turned to You Tube to illustrate.

"Is that Justin Bieber?!" asked V, my besotted 9-year-old.

"No, but now that you mention it. . ."

When Delusions Collide

2011-11-29T11:00:00.000-08:00

Saturday, my mom started hospice, the in-home kind. So yeah, we're getting there. The chemotherapy is not helping and is, in fact, sapping all joy and comfort out of her remaining days, so she stopped. The doctor said that of course we don't know precisely how much longer she's got, but given her symptoms (weight loss, appetite loss, difficulty breathing, blood clots, recurrent infections, routine dehydration, weakness) and the x-ray confirmation that tumors are getting more profuse and bigger, not smaller, we are looking at a couple months.

The first hospice meeting was an enrollment meeting with some kind of administrator/nurse, Linda, a nice lady. She explained the program to us. Explained the stringent requirements. (Did you know you can get kicked out of hospice if you plateau too long? [I wish!] Must be journeying toward death to qualify.) She answered our diverse questions, and exhibited incredible patience.

My mom asked a few reasonable questions and did a whole lot of listening. My aunt sat in one corner, saying things like "She's getting better, not worse; she doesn't need this." My sister sat in another corner, shaking and weeping softly. My mom's friend gave a spirited account of her volunteer service in Hurricane Katrina. My 18-year-old, Elaine, who's the one actually living with her, said nothing. We all recoiled in horror when we realized they wouldn't give her IV fluids at home (which she does twice a week), that at some point she'd be too weak to go and they still wouldn't do it.

Honestly, it's all a bit of a surreal blur. Elaine says I behaved well. (Good to know as there was a great deal of "OH, FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE, PULL IT TOGETHER, YOU WEIRDOS!" going on in my head.) Honestly, I can't remember much except my family's bizarre behavior and going through all mom's meds with Linda, the RN.

Some real perks to hospice: We no longer pay for OTC or co-pays on prescriptions. One call gets us medical advice day or night. One nurse contacts all of the doctors for my mom. Some of this uncontrolled pain will be eased. Someone else is going to change her sheets twice a week. (My shoulder sort of hates me.) A social worker will help our family work through some of the issues surrounding mom's illness and death.

And boy, are there some issues. One of the drawbacks of moving to hospice care is that it's really bringing out our different points of view. Very uncomfortable.

My aunt believes that the doctors don't know what they are talking about and my mom is not going to die from this and if we would all just send our positive thoughts into the universe she would be recovering from all these nasty complications from the meds much faster.

My sister believes that she will not survive my mother's death and there will never be happiness again. Ever. About anything.

I believe that as the chemo works it's way out of my mom's system, she will feel better for a while. Then the cancer will attempt a take-over and my mom will ultimately die. (At which point, the cancer loses forever. This thought is grimly satisfying. Cancer never wins. Never.) Then my mom's spirit will join her family and friends who have gone before her in the spirit world and she will await the resurrection. Then she gets a perfect pain-free body, as does everyone else she loves. I like my worldview best.

Still the suffering right now is hard. I spend a lot of time pondering the purpose of all this. Started reading The Book Thief, which by all accounts is fabulous, and had to set it aside. Anything narrated by Death is going to have to wait. For a long while, I'm guessing.

I've decided that it's OK that my husband under-reacts to emotional trauma. (see http://supermisc.blogspot.com/2010/11/his-and-hers.html [No idea why links are disabled right now.]) He's calm. He and God are kinda holding the world together for me.

Ode to Clothes

2011-10-22T10:28:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know—it's a poem (not mine--do I look mean?). Give it a shot. It's easy and you might like it.

Ode to Clothes

Every morning you wait,
clothes, over a chair,
to fill yourself with
my vanity, my love,
my hope, my body.
Barely
risen from sleep,
I relinquish the water,
enter your sleeves,
my legs look for
the hollows of your legs,
and so embraced
by your indefatigable faithfulness
I rise, to tread the grass,
enter poetry,
consider through the windows,
the things,
the men, the women,
the deeds and the fights
go on forming me,
go on making me face things
working my hands,
opening my eyes,
using my mouth,
and so,
clothes,
I too go forming you,
extending your elbows,
snapping your threads,
and so your life expands
in the image of my life.
In the wind
you billow and snap
as if you were my soul,
at bad times
you cling
to my bones,
vacant, for the night,
darkness, sleep
populate with their phantoms
your wings and mine.
I wonder
if one day
a bullet
from the enemy
will leave you stained with my blood
and then
you will die with me
or one day
not quite
so dramatic
but simple,
you will fall ill,
clothes,
with me,
grow old
with me, with my body
and joined
we will enter
the earth.
Because of this
each day
I greet you
with reverence and then
you embrace me and I forget you,
because we are one
and we will go on
facing the wind, in the night,
the streets or the fight,
a single body,
one day, one day, some day, still.

- Pablo Neruda

Just Whining

2011-10-19T10:15:00.000-07:00

Speaking to me is a bit risky these days. I burst into tears without warning. Not without reason, just without warning. Wanna talk about my mom's cancer? Leakage. Wanna talk older children's testimonies? Shaky voice. Tears. Snot. How's about the homeschooling of my special daughter? Bewildered look. Quivering lip. A muttered mention of an upcoming appointment with the pediatric neurologist which might (or might not) yield helpful information.

New charter school for three of the kids? Good for two. Pretty unpleasant for one. It's likely I can get through that subject with a totally calm face. But don't ask how I'm feeling. Don't ask how my husband's business is going. Or how the finances are coming along. Definitely don't ask how all these stressors affect my poor husband.

How's the rheumatoid arthritis? Better, thanks. Yay, I can hold a convo on that one. The weather? It's been strange lately, don't you think? As long as I stay away from anything that I need to talk about I can talk. Ironic, no?

I've taken to ditching Sunday School for the family history library. (Dead folks ask no questions. If they're rejecting the gospel, they are keeping it to themselves. There's not a thoughtless comment among them.) At home (in between dealing with all of that weepy stuff) I've planted my butt in front of the twenty-some odd seasons of Star Trek in all it's mind-numbing diversity.

The bishop wants to meet with Sam and I to talk. I can't think of anything I'd rather do less than cry for the bishop, but I can't even manage to say that without crying. Maybe I can pull off the first lady adoring gaze at my husband while pondering peaceful fields of wildflowers. I don't have a good hat, but I still think I can do it. Sam can field the questions.

But then again the bishop might just be asking us to work in the nursery. He's a nice guy; I'm sure it'll be fine. Tearful, but fine.

The Snack Time Minefield

2011-09-12T10:25:00.000-07:00

Nine years ago when Nat was a Kindergartner, we had some issues with class snack. We were montessori-ing it at that point, and snack time and civility was a big deal—bring your own placemat. So the plan was that every twenty days we'd bring snack for twenty kids. Simple enough, no? No.

First came vegan mom's horror, Oreos. ("What kind of person would feed their five-year-old Oreos?!? At 10 in the morning!?!" [I plead the fifth.])

Then came nut allergy mom. ("Actually, if any of the kids eat peanut butter before they come to school, would you mind bathing them thoroughly before they leave for school? In fact, could you just stop eating peanut butter in your homes? Thanks!")

Then the dairy allergy raised it's ugly head. ("Not everything. Just milk, yogurt, cheese, butter, sour cream, those sorts of things. Bread is OK.")

"Please no wheat allergy. Please no "dried fruit causes cavities" dentist's kids, please!" became my prayer. I distinctly remember the day I went to make ants on a log and bought cream cheese to use instead of pb, but then realized that cream cheese was dairy. OK, ants next to a log.

Such a stress. It took months before the teacher came to the conclusion that everyone should bring their own snack for civility time. In the meantime, I just brought in boxes of back-up snacks and tried to stay out of the line of fire.

It's hard to find something that works for twenty different mom/kid combos. One person's yum is another person's yuck. Hummus, a favorite of vegan mom, gagged my daughter. People's definition of healthy varied widely. Although most of us recognized Oreos as a nutrition fail, fruit snacks, yogurt, and muffins also raised a ruckus among some parents.

Fast forward to Caroline's class which started last week, it took precisely two days and a glance over everyone's health forms to reveal that some of our cuties have nut allergies (almonds, walnuts, pecans—no peanuts, amazingly enough) and dairy sensitivities. By that night an email went out explaining the issue and explaining the new snack procedure. It was pretty complicated: bring something your child can and will eat in a container marked with her name. Works for me.

But here's where my brain stalls out. You can run into kids with conflicting needs. My best friend's son had food issues. He ate nothing but Jif smooth peanut butter and honey bear honey on Home Pride butter-top white bread (PBH). What happens when that PBH boy is in the same school as death by peanut fumes girl?

When Nat was in fourth grade she couldn't bring PB in her lunch, because there was a girl in her class that had a preschool sibling at home who had a deadly allergy. There's an entire school in our district that is peanut-free. And I get it. You can't just say, "Suck it up and carry an epi-pen! Gotta enter the real world sometime, kid." But can you say, "OK, we'll go to tube feeding for you, PBH kid"?

I'm guessing most people would vote for PBH boy to just be hungry until he gets home and say that if you just feed a picky child a variety of healthy foods and don't give them their food of choice when they fail to eat the options before them, they'll get hungry enough to eat something other than PBH. Eventually. I bear my testimony that there are children in the world who will not eat rather than eat undesired food. I've met them. I've seen heroic efforts put forth by admirable parents. I've seen the kids begin to waste away. Not pretty in a land of plenty.

So what to do when picky runs into food allergy? No clue. And I'm glad I don't have to decide it. Just glad our Kindergarten teacher decisively took care of snack so quickly.

Stand Strong, Little Domino

2011-09-01T09:51:00.000-07:00

I know you're thinking "what's with the domino?" If you're not, you should be, because the sweetness of this gift is all about the domino. It's a gift from a kind and busy woman. This week, one of the speakers in sacrament meeting had been talking about adversity, and afterwards my friendly acquaintance and I were talking about life's challenges and I shared my domino image.

When things get tough and it seems like things are hitting from all sides, I have a mental image that holds me together—dominoes. I see lines of dominoes all converging at a single domino. And then from that single domino come another set of domino lines, from which spring even more domino lines. The first set all fall one after another, and then stop at the single domino. That domino stands strong and doesn't knock over the remaining lines.

I'm not saying I'm Super Domino. I'm not. And something may happen down the line that topples the setup, but it won't be me. It won't be because I quit. I don't want to do hard things. I'd much rather life was fluffy and more picturesque, but it's not. And I have dominoes depending on me. Most of the dominoes that strike me are things or situations, but all of the dominoes that stand in front of me are people. People worth standing strong for, regardless of the pressures from behind.

So that's the deal with the domino (and the flowers are pretty too).

My Yvil Sister is Concerned

2011-08-22T07:08:00.000-07:00

I'm not feeling particularly depressed or insane, but my sister who despises blogging recently hinted that perhaps I'd be a bit more sane if I started blogging again. In the same conversation, she suggested that therapy might be an option or maybe a caretaker's support group. I guess she thinks I have an issue. Perhaps she has a point. I could use an outlet. I could use a thought-comber, something to untangle the nasty, painful knots of thought I've got. Obviously I've used the blog as a therapist before--I have a whole slew of past posts under "blogging is cheaper than therapy." Therapy is expensive and blogging's cheaper than almost everything.

I did go to the caretaker's support group with the yvil-sister a few weeks ago and I don't think going with her is going to be particularly supportive. There was one other person there, another care-giving daughter, about twenty years older than us. The poor woman hardly got a word in edgewise as we pumped the social worker for info and opinions. The social worker (in self-defense I think) gave us a few books which are proving helpful.

I've been walking with a friend, one of the smartest, kindest women I've hung out with in a long time. That's been therapeutic, physically and mentally. (I've been taking a new medicine for rheumatoid arthritis which has enabled me to exercise for the first time in years. Guess that's a subject for a different post though.)

Don't have time to fiddle and edit the post. But that's the news and I guess I'll try blogging again to see if my sister feels better.

Sad News

2011-04-20T18:17:00.000-07:00

My mother-in-law died on Thursday after courageously going through nearly four years of chemo. (Not a whiner, my mother-in-law.) I'm surprised at how sad I feel. We weren't close. If she lived another twenty years, we wouldn't have become close, but she is the mother of the dearest man in the world and the grandmother to my favorite six kids. Her death is a reminder that my mother's is coming. That mine is coming.

OK, now I'm going to go watch a comedy and laugh until I cry.

Longer than a facebook update, but not much.

2011-04-04T11:02:00.000-07:00

I know most people who visit my blog are here to look at lice-ish pictures, but for the few who come because they know and love me, here's a quickie update. In January, my mom came super-close to death. The second chemo treatment left her gasping and pretty much unable to get out of bed. Freaked me out. So she stopped chemo for a while and then started up a different type. Same meds, but by pill instead of IV pump. And it's going much better. Looks like she'll be able to complete this set. She just finished up her third two-week round. I think they're doing another nine. She's tired, but not nigh unto death. She's back to talking about her 10-year plan. I think the 10-year plan would be miraculous, but I'm glad to hear about it again. So now the borrowed computer is telling me I have 7 minutes, so farewell for now. I miss blogging. Maybe I'll start again. Though I must say facebook is making me lazy. Like. Click. No thinking required. Anyhow, chao.

Miss Delacourt is Très Charmante.

2011-03-01T10:27:00.001-08:00

I love me a good regency.

And what, pray tell, is a regency?

Well, let me tell ya.

You know this lady, right?

She wrote these novels,

All are set in Regency England

when the Prince of Wales was regent during

George III's insanity, 1811-1820.

They wore clothes like this:

(Just spent thirty minutes

staring at 19th century fashion images.

Where does the time go?)

Anyhow, back to regencies.

So, the thing is Miss Austen died a while back

and many ~~addicts~~ fans needed more.

More clothes, more banter, more romance.

More. More. More.

(It's sort of an insatiable little habit.)

Writers began to oblige the market.

(Georgette Heyer, Elizabeth Mansfield,

and Marion Chesney,

to name a few of my faves.)

Lots of sparkling dialog.

Glorious clothes.

Some farce.

A little social commentary.

Plenty of variety,

always returning to the basics,

frothy, sweet, fun and CLEAN romance.

In the 90s, publishers began to lose sight of the basics

when they began to encourage writers to filthify their work.

I stopped reading them.

In fact, so many readers stopped reading them

that authors stopped writing them.

I could only get my fix by re-reading.

Which sucked.

Enter Heidi Ashworth, novelist

When I realized that she wrote clean Regency Era novels.

I begged an advance copy of her first novel

Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind

which I blogged about here.

In general, I'm against sequels in romance.

Most characters just do not have the oomph to

make it through a sequel credibly.

Miss Delacourt and Sir Anthony do.

Grandaunt Regina and Lucinda do.

Miss Delacourt Has Her Day

maintains the Ashworth sparkle

without taking itself too seriously.

It's filled

with fun and romance and

longing and doubts

and clothes and banter and

obnoxious relatives

and sweet resolution.

I love this book.

I'm betting you will too.

Goodreads is giving away a copy.

Go Enter.
(By clicking the highlighted words.)

Also Heidi is having a Miss D-inspired rosy giveaway at her place.

Go see.

Made a Video For My Mom

2011-01-16T11:22:00.000-08:00

It's three minutes of symbolic fun! OK, it's just symbolic. Not fun. But it made me cry to make it and it made my mommy cry to watch it. The good kind of tears. She wanted her friends to be able to see it so here it is. Cut to the chase if you like by going to about 2 minutes 10 seconds.

2010-11-11T16:11:00.000-08:00

Sonnet XIX: When I Consider How my Light is Spent

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

John Milton

His and Hers

2010-11-02T18:59:00.000-07:00

My husband and I don't actually have a lot in common, but the things we do are pretty big. For instance, my mother-in-law also has stage IV cancer. She was given a year to live a few years back. So he's has been dealing with this for a while. And I haven't understood him at all. I tried to restrain myself from nagging. (Don't you want to go spend time with your mom? Maybe you should send flowers? Do you want to send a card?) Because my husband's response has been that since she's not feeling well, she'd like a little peace and quiet, and he's going to give it to her.

My mom's been in the hospital all week, and I've gone as often as I could to be with her, to just sit there and watch her breathe, to get her a cup of peppermint tea, to do nothing at all. I've been keeping my mom's friends posted on her progress. And he doesn't get it. He thinks I'm being borderline cruel. Discussing her stuff. Staring at her while she's less than composed.

I'm sure there are times my MIL wishes he would step up the sympathy and attention and mine wishes I'd back off a bit. For the most part though, my mother-in-law appreciates his brand of support and my mom appreciates mine.

Makes me wonder: nature or nurture? I'd totally say it's a family culture thing, but my kids have been thoroughly trained in over-the-top sympathy responses and still I've got two who are give-em-their-space types. Maybe it's a gender thing. Maybe it doesn't matter. Too tired to tease out the tangles in this one.

It Sucks

2010-10-30T19:30:00.000-07:00

Posting lots and lots over at my mom's caring bridge blog. Little details about her recovery from surgery. Everyone always wants more. They think they do anyway. They don't. I know I don't want to be as sure as I am that I'm going to lose her. Suspense sucks, but certainty is its own brand of hell.

I ran into a post somewhere from a guy who regarded his stage 4 cancer as a chronic disease and had vastly beat the odds. I've grasped onto that story. And I chant it to myself as I'm going to sleep and the surgeon's voice is replaying in my head, telling what he had found and where. A chronic disease. A chronic disease. Sometimes I even forget for a bit. Then I wonder why I feel so sad. Then I remember. And it sucks.

Regret

2010-10-21T06:53:00.000-07:00

It's been a year. Almost to the day. My mother and I share a tumultuous history, but this was the tumultuous-est, an argument that was all the more vicious because everything that was said was true.

During the nastiness my mother posted a vague something on facebook that hurt and angered me. I clicked the "remove from friends" button then gloried in my newfound freedom. I could say whatever I thought without having to worry that my mom was going to be offended or nag me endlessly about something I had posted.

Healing has been slow. We've moved on. Kinda. I wouldn't re-friend her though. Even though she had asked nicely several times. Because I was right. I was right in what said. It needed to be said. And I would say it again. And she was wrong. Wrong in her original behavior and wrong in her response. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Besides I liked my freedom of speech. No mom on facebook.

Last Monday, she had a CT that showed a large mass in her colon. Thursday, a colonoscopy showed it to be cancer. Tuesday, I sat with her as the surgeon told her that there was very likely a second tumor in a different place. They wouldn't know until they got in there, but he was fairly sure. Stage IV. The fatal stage.

And you know what? I friended my mother on facebook last Friday. Because I was wrong. Wrong in my original behavior and wrong in my response. And I'm lucky. Because I got a little notice.

First Day of School

2010-08-16T07:35:00.000-07:00

I'm homeschooling the whole clan this year. (Not the original plan, but we're working with it.) I've got a senior, a sophomore, an eighth-grader, a sixth-grader, a third-grader, and a preschooler. If I ponder it too deeply, I begin to get jittery.

Really though, the only difference between the day before school starts and the first day of school is that starting today I will begin to sing the Song of Math. Everything else works itself out with a lot of reading and co-op classes, but Math is painful and relentless. The first day of Math involves a lot of whining. The second goes better. If we get cocky and skip the third, the fourth will be as miserable as the first. In fact, every single time we skip a day of Math there is weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth when we start the next lesson. The principle holds true even on weekends. If they get Saturday and Sunday off, they seem to truly believe that they are done. For life.

Math Boy is the exception to this. He collects Calculus books. He likes the stuff. This more than almost anything testifies to me that we lived before this life. Jacob, he studied Math before he got here. And spelling. Because brilliant though I am, Math and spelling are not my strong points. And even if they were, I still couldn't have imparted that brilliance through any normal teaching methods. He's just wired for it. He picks it up by breathing. Not so for the rest of the monkeys. We labor for our Math accomplishments.

Anyhow, gotta run. No time to edit. It's time to start the joy of Math. Happy day to you all.

Weight, Weight, Don't Tell Me!

2010-07-13T12:05:00.000-07:00

OK, so I'm forty pounds down. That's a lot, but 260 looks a lot like 300, so I don't have any new pictures.

For a short while I went the medically supervised weight loss route. (That'd be Ph*nt*rm!n* aka legal speed.) I felt like crap. After I took my pill in the morning, it was like I had been struck with narcolepsy. I wasn't hungry, but neither was I awake. The weight loss was swift, but not worth it.

At this point, I am just forgoing sugared foods. Since I am a compulsive overeater, with sugar and flour items topping the binge list, that action alone has been resulting in slow weight loss.

The "plan" is to add good things to my diet and eliminate things that trigger my binging or are just bad for me:

'Bye sugar.
Buy fruits and veggies.
'Bye white bread.
Buy whole grains.
'Bye Diet Coke.
Buy water.

Number five may just keep moving down the list. To quote Miss Scarlett, "I won't think of it now. I can't stand it now. I'll think of it later." Today's job is no sugar and plenty of fruits and veggies. Later is a good time to ponder the rest of the list.

Long Time No Blog

2010-06-12T10:02:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know. I've gone inactive in the blogging community. Become a sporadic stalker. I've stayed on top of a few blogs, mostly those of people who I've connected with in real life one way or another, but overall I've poofed into a poignant memory.

In the meantime, my lousy block-buster post draws the afflicted by the thousands: 83,521 overall as of 10:15 AM. Sometimes I feel like I should just change my header to some sort of lice and nit theme. Strangely, Cutest Blog on the Block doesn't have that template. Weird.

Anyhow, I'm alive. Big things have been happening. Little things have been happening. I have every intention of writing more. (see resolutions) Look for upcoming posts about my contemplation of running a marathon. And losing another 120 pounds. And being nicer. And cleaning up my language. It's going to be amazing (and vaguely nauseous).

Time Management Induced Panic Attacks

2010-02-24T15:04:00.000-08:00

You all have seen this one, right?

Start with an empty glass.

Now fill it with rocks.

Is it full?

(Uh yes. Just said to fill it with rocks.)

Can you fit any more in?

Oh yeah.

Next comes the gravel,

pour a bunch in and shake it down.

How about now?

Completely full yet?

No way.

Fill that baby with sand.

Shake her down.

Now we've got something like this:

Is it full now?

(Can we stop yet?)

Nope.

Time for:

WATER!

Fill 'er up!

Now the potential of the glass has been reached.

This demonstration is supposed to show that

you should put first things first.

(A la Stephen Covey)

Because if you try putting the sand in first

you cannot fit in the rocks

which represent the important things in life.

If you try something silly

like putting the sand in first,

you'd get something more like this:

And that's a little

OVERWHELMING!

The thing any rational person should be asking themselves is:

WHY ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH

ARE WE TRYING TO GET

THAT MUCH CRAP IN OUR GLASS?

I feel the same way about appointment calenders with 15-minute increments.

No offense to my organized friends. Love you.

Uh...Happy Birthday, Mom.

2010-02-13T10:59:00.000-08:00

So let's say your kids actually put all 60 candles on your cake plus a six candle and a zero candle and candles that spell out Happy Birthday. Then let's say lighting all those babies is taking a bit too long, so you go check on something in the other room while they finish up. Then let's say even though your kids are yelling frantically to GET BACK IN HERE, you still take your time. Then let's just say the cake was an ice cream cake. You could end up with a pillar of fire for your cake. Just saying.

(Yes, it was still edible. And no, I didn't eat any. 20 lbs down--130 to go.)

(BTW, it was my mom's bd, not mine.)

Pollyanna on Migraines

2010-01-17T23:00:00.000-08:00

c Disney

Let's play the glad game!

Migraines are a natural appetite suppressant, and if I'm lucky enough to get to the puking stage, I don't have to count the calories of the last four or five things I ate!

Having a migraine gives me Super Powers, Super Senses, if you prefer. Everything smells so much more intense. My vision gets all fun; I really get to see things in a whole new light. And my hearing. . .oh the sensitivity! I can hear things that normally would be completely ignored. Lucky me.

With a migraine, all those pesky little have-tos just go away. I get to clear my calender of everything. How often does that happen? If I was functional, I'd have to do the dishes or laundry. I'd need to drive the kids around. Stand up. Talk to people. Open my eyes. Instead I get to lounge around all day.

Talk about things to be thankful for!

Behold My Before

2010-01-14T16:30:00.000-08:00

I despise the traditional "before" photos of dieters, those grim faced, badly-dressed fatties standing in despair.

I refuse. I will not slouch and sulk as I announce my determination to tackle this issue. On December the seventh, I stood on the scale and stared at the little screen as it posted the news:

300.0 lbs Even

(If that's not a sign, I don't know what is. )

This is what I look like.

I have one hundred and sixty pounds to lose,

health and vitality to regain.

And I'm going to do it

for me and for my family.

My Resolutions (in MormonAds)

2010-01-03T10:01:00.000-08:00

Palindromes

2010-01-02T13:33:00.000-08:00

Today's date is 01022010 the same forwards and backwards!

My twitter username is a palindrome too.

imajjami

Get it? I'm a Jami. Or an imaj of jami if you prefer. Feel free to follow me. Or not.

Doesn't it seem odd to you that the word palindrome isn't a palindrome? Palindromemordinlap seems a bit much though.

No Exaggeration Required

2009-12-26T09:32:00.000-08:00

From my husband's company's weekly newsletter:

INAPPROPRIATE TOUCHING

[Our company] has a zero tolerance for sexual harassment. Touching another person while a[t] work is NOT acceptable except when providing emergency medical attention (first aid or CPR) or giving a formal handshake. No other forms of touching are permitted. Other forms of touching are considered sexual harassment and will not be tolerated. You are subjecting yourself to the possibility of immediate termination if you engage in inappropriate touching. If you have been hugging, kissing, massaging, shaking hands with a double grasp, patting on the back or any other forms of inappropriate touching STOP IMMEDIATELY!

Not kidding.

Trashing the Van

2009-11-14T10:30:00.000-08:00

When my fifth child was born, we outgrew our car. We'd been driving two cars for a while to get our whole family anywhere, but at five kids we no longer had enough seatbelts for all of the kids. Someone had to sit on the floor. Most of the time we walked rather than risk death, dismemberment, or expensive traffic tickets. For about three months, we walked. And walked. And walked.

The need to buy a van grew within me. Not just any van. A new van. A Toyota Sienna, the car of my dreams. Crazy thinking. But crazed or not, the notion took root, and each time I drove with my oldest on the floor or walked the four miles to church, it grew a little. By the time May rolled around, we had an addition complication: our family needed to move into my mom's place so some repairs could be completed at our house. That made the walk to church seven miles. One way. My growing little obsession blossomed and bore fruit.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't easy. My husband protested. I insisted. He strongly protested, but finally my insane determination triumphed. Against my husband's wishes and all sound budgeting, I purchased my first new car.

The day we drove our sparkly new 2002 van off the dealers lot, we drove past something like unto this:

I looked at my sweet husband and said, "That is our future."

And indeed it has been. The first ding was a parking lot boo-boo on the passenger's side. The biggest was when my MIL backed into our front bumper. The most irritating was when one of my cute angel-monkeys got mad at me and took a rock on a drive down the driver's side a few times. The most painful was when the Montessori teachers (who opened the door for the kids each morning) pulled the handle right off the passenger's sliding door. My husband cracked the right rear-view mirror. Spills, forgotten apples, children's wrestling matches, car-seat dents, soda explosions, mud, straw all have contributed to our van's condition. My contribution? A big scratch from my mis-installation of a bike rack the other day.

Even though the glory of my glittery new toy faded fast, I cannot tell you what a joy it has been to get into my car and have it start, to need to go somewhere and to just be able to get there, to be able to give a rides to people. Quite honestly, I think I appreciate my grubby old van today as much as I ever have. Maybe even more. It's still going seven years and 140,000 miles later. Even my husband's been glad we got it. And that's saying a lot.

Clothing Drive

2009-11-11T11:42:00.000-08:00

My virtual buddy Sue is having a clothing drive to help refugees in Salt Lake City who have been displaced from warmer climates. Pass the word on and help if you can. It'll make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

You can send coats or any warm clothes you have on hand, or you can order something online and have it sent to this address, saving a trip to the post office while still giving that happy holiday glow.

The shipping address is:

Gayane Manukyan
Att: 100 Coats for Kids Project
Refugee Center at AAU
1588 South Major Street
Salt Lake City, Utah 84115

Summer's Good News

2009-09-28T15:45:00.000-07:00

Meet Pandora

Her super power? Invisibility.

Can you see her yet?

How about now?

Now disguised as a mild-mannered house cat.

Are you fooled?

Rethinking the Whole Castration Thing

2009-09-26T13:00:00.000-07:00

Melanie requested to hear about my world view exploding, and I think I'm stable enough to write about a portion of the explosion now. If not, I can just erase the post. Unless I accidentally press publish instead then my psychotic rantings will promptly go to a few dozen blog readers. (Not that it has happened before or anything.)

"Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up."

I've got a problem with child molesters. It's a common problem. I hate them and would like them to die during an unmedicated castration. Child molesters are pure unmitigated evil and deserve pain. It's a nasty world view, but there it is.

A few years ago when my best friend's husband got caught red-handed with their mentally-challenged adopted daughter, I had a conflict. This was a man who I had known for years, a man who had offered my family shelter during a difficult homeless time. (Another long story involving the city and some building code violations.) The evidence was undeniable however. I took the girl in while my friend got her husband out. Then I watched in disbelief as law enforcement and CPS let the whole thing drop between counties.

The thing is... as much as I loved the child, I did not want her molester to die slowly. I wanted him to get treatment, I wanted him to stay away from other children, but I didn't want him dead.

Fast forward to early summer 2009. I do a Google search on a good friend from college to see what he's up to. Surprise! It's a molestation conviction. I cannot believe it. I don't mean that metaphorically—I really cannot believe it.

I email him and get the scoop. I believe the now-adult "victim" is lying, insane perhaps.

This man is one of my oldest and most spiritual friends, one of the chastest people I've ever known. (He has faults, but they mainly lie in his unwillingness to get a real job and support his family.) Now he's falsely convicted. The justice system sucks: a guilty molester wandering free and an innocent man bound for jail. I rant and rave. Rave and rant. What's it take to get a little justice in this world?

After I calm down a bit, I contact his ex-wife, who I love and respect. Such a sane woman, taken in by lies. Her pain must be immense.

It is. Two hours later, my heart is broken, my world upside down. I claim tragedy in a friend's life to explain my tears which for some unaccountable reason roll down my face anytime anyone says, "How are you?" (Awkward.) It's not a lie: My dear friend has lost his mind. My other dear friend has had her world and her faith shattered. All of their children have lost their father. That, my friends, is tragedy.

Should he be castrated, the life slowly ebbing from him while his soul is thrust down to hell? People who harm children are pure unmitigated evil, right? But he is my dear friend, not pure unmitigated evil. How can I process the unprocessable? He's innocent. Guilty. Innocent. My mind won't leave it alone.

I reread everything he's ever written. It's a lot: emails, letters, a book, a screenplay, his appeal paperwork. I read my college journals. And I decide he is telling the truth. This man could not have committed this crime. I'd buy losing his mind and committing a bank robbery, polygamy, even murder, but not this, not molesting a child. Not him.

Every instinct in me says she's right, that he's guilty. Every instinct in me says he's innocent. Clearly I cannot trust my instincts. I cannot trust my conclusions.

These things I do know. 1. Jami plays no part in this tragedy except as a weeping audience member. 2. I cannot know. Not in this life. 3. It's OK to believe they are both right even though it defies logic. 4. We probably ought to skip castration as a form of the death penalty. 5. I will feel this pain until God heals it.

I want to be able to wrap up this whole monstrosity in a nice little package of wisdom with a bow on top and a tag that reads, "Yes, it's heinous, but there's a moral to be learned here." Alas I have no wisdom; I'm still floundering. I'm praying wisdom comes along at some point. Praying hard.

Reality a bit much? Try Poetry.

2009-09-19T09:30:00.000-07:00

Art by Molly Stanton

Overheard on a Saltmarsh

Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?

Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?

Give them me.
No.

Give them me. Give them me.

No.

Then I will howl all night in the reeds,
Lie in the mud and howl for them.

Goblin, why do you love them so?

They are better than stars or water,
Better than voices of winds that sing,
Better than any man's fair daughter,
Your green glass beads on a silver ring.

Hush, I stole them out of the moon.

Give me your beads, I desire them.

No.

I will howl in a deep lagoon
For your green glass beads, I love them so.
Give them me. Give them.

No.

—Harold Monro

Art by Anna Christenson

We're Happy When We're Helping

2009-09-15T15:25:00.000-07:00

Misty--a dear friend of a dear friend--is Dairrien's mom. If it is possible for you to help, even a little, please do. I can only give $10, but it's all theirs.

I am trying to raise money to help with expenses that will encure for us during My Son Dairriens Surgery...Dairrien is 13 years old. He has gone through 3 surgeries and this will be his 4th... I am a single mom of 3 boys..So being able to leave our home for up to 14 days is going to be tough..The surgery is paid for through our insurance and Shriners Hospital.. But being a single mom,Money is tight,And I will be leaving my 1 child,and animals in the care of my mother.Who has to take unpaid time off work to take care of my home and child. It will take alot of money to be away from my home for up to 14 days..Gas,and food is my biggest concern,as I will not only have myself to worry about but my youngest son who will have to go with me.. I have to raise enough Money to help pay for my one child to be left with my mother,Food and extra money in case he needs anything.. And I need to raise enough money to Get to Shriners,and back..Along with enough Food Money to last up to 14 days..we also need to raise money for a follow up appointment that he will have a few weeks after surgery..and anything he needs to take with him to the hospital,back pillows,new set of lose clothing (sweats) for the ride home.. So all of this adds up to an amount that I just do not have!! Please Check out our website we have set up,to learn more about Dairrien's Condition and why he is having surgery... For The Love of Dairrien

Then They Got Big

2009-09-11T16:30:00.000-07:00

Sadly, Penny turned into Indy.

Blindie, a sweet bird, a poor trade

Say bye-bye, roosters.

The Fortunate Six

Pitch—a Black Copper Maran hen.

Gimpy, a Barred Rock hen,

has nine toes on one of her feet,

poor girl.

My Dog Ate My Blog Post

2009-09-05T18:29:00.000-07:00

Please excuse my absence.

The kids have been hogging the computer.
My camera died.
Facebook kidnapped my brains.
The keyboard was anointed with yogurt.
My worldview blew up.
The mouse stopped working.
Change and decay in all around I've seen.

Been processing the unprocessible.

I will be returning to myself shortly.

I promise.

Geek Humor Meets Greek Humor

2009-08-14T00:34:00.000-07:00

Forgive Me, I'm in the Mood for Powerful Poetry

2009-08-11T15:14:00.000-07:00

Ode On Melancholy by John Keats

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Beautiful, Heartbreaking, and a bit Pagan

2009-08-05T18:55:00.000-07:00

Patterns

I walk down the garden paths,
And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern. As I wander down
The garden paths.

My dress is richly figured,
And the train
Makes a pink and silver stain
On the gravel, and the thrift
Of the borders.
Just a plate of current fashion,
Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
Not a softness anywhere about me,
Only whalebone and brocade.
And I sink on a seat in the shade
Of a lime tree. For my passion
Wars against the stiff brocade.
The daffodils and squills
Flutter in the breeze
As they please.
And I weep;
For the lime-tree is in blossom
And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the plashing of waterdrops
In the marble fountain
Comes down the garden-paths.
The dripping never stops.
Underneath my stiffened gown
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
A basin in the midst of hedges grown
So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
But she guesses he is near,
And the sliding of the water
Seems the stroking of a dear
Hand upon her.
What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
And he would stumble after,
Bewildered by my laughter.
I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes.
I would choose
To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,
Till he caught me in the shade,
And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
Aching, melting, unafraid.
With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
And the plopping of the waterdrops,
All about us in the open afternoon—
I am very like to swoon
With the weight of this brocade,
For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom
In my bosom,
Is a letter I have hid.
It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
"Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
Died in action Thursday se'nnight."
As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
The letters squirmed like snakes.
"Any answer, Madam," said my footman.
"No," I told him.
"See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
No, no answer."
And I walked into the garden,
Up and down the patterned paths,
In my stiff, correct brocade.
The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
Each one.
I stood upright too,
Held rigid to the pattern
By the stiffness of my gown.
Up and down I walked,
Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband.
In a month, here, underneath this lime,
We would have broke the pattern;
He for me, and I for him,
He as Colonel, I as Lady,
On this shady seat.
He had a whim
That sunlight carried blessing.
And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."
Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
Up and down
The patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
The squills and daffodils
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
I shall go
Up and down,
In my gown.
Gorgeously arrayed,
Boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
By each button, hook, and lace.
For the man who should loose me is dead,
Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
In a pattern called a war.
Christ! What are patterns for?

—Amy Lowell

And I Quote

2009-07-30T20:15:00.000-07:00

"I was bred to the law; that gave me a view of the dark side of humanity. Then I read poetry to qualify it with a gaze upon its bright side; and between the two extremes I have contrived through life to draw the due medium."

Thomas Jefferson, as quoted in Thomas Jefferson and the Rhetoric of Virtue

A Waste of my Mortal Probation

2009-07-23T09:40:00.001-07:00

So I read the first and last Twilight books. Two thoughts. One for each of them.

Twilight: What's with the apple? Really.

Warning! PG-13 comment on a PG-13 book:

Breaking Dawn: What's with the never-ending s@x?

The end is the best part. Just sayin'.

The Gospel According to V

2009-07-12T16:40:00.000-07:00

My V interprets her lessons at church in such a lively way. A little tweak here, a little extrapolation there and viola, a tale worth telling!

Take this recent exchange:

Mom, do you know what the gift of tongues is?

What?

It's when Jesus gives us a tongue! Do you know why he gives us a tongue?

Uh...

So we can talk to him. Before he gave us a tongue, he couldn't understand us because we couldn't make our words right.

Um...

The mutilated lesson from the week before:

Look, Mom! Look! Here's a glove. See how it's DEAD! It doesn't move because its really dead. But look, Mom! If I put my hand in it, the glove is ALIVE. Because my hand is alive. Do you know why Jesus made my glove alive? So that [she places a penny upon her gloved hand and moves it forward a few inches]...so that it can pay tithing! Isn't that great, Mom?

Uh...yes, babe. That's great.

And last but not least, here's my all-time favorite V-ism, from a couple years back.

Do you have any questions about Jesus, V?

Just one. How did Jesus get us all here to Earth?

Well...daddies and mo--

I know! He gave us a ride on a spaceship! He had a cart that he drives on little wire connected to earth and the moon and the planet God lives on. So he made us on his planet and then he carried us without life and as he put us on Earth he made us alive--with his magic.

Well...um...hm. Actually I'm really sure about Heavenly Father letting daddies and mommies make babies.

With s*x?

Yes, when a daddy and a mo--

Then Jesus brings us to Earth in the cart. Right?!

I love you, sweetie.

I love you too, Mom.

In Which the Universe Thumbs Its Nose at My Presumption

2009-07-07T12:12:00.000-07:00

It was beginning to feel like the death channel around here: all death, all the time.

So in late June I made my first Official Declaration 1 to the Universe:

Official Declaration 1

Hear ye! Hear ye! I officially declare the rest of 2009 to be a death-free year! All things great and small are hereby forbidden to die.

Most Seriously,

Jami La

Controller of All

At which point the Universe began its decimation of the stars.

Excuse me, O Universe, I believe you've gotten my order wrong.

What the heck? Wasn't I clear enough?

What?? I am not in control of the universe?

Oh. Oops. My mistake.

Edward and Westley

2009-07-06T11:30:00.000-07:00

In January, Westley disappeared. We searched the shelters, the streets, and accosted every white cat in town. We listed ads on Craig's List and in the newspaper. It was heart-rending. The lack of closure, the not knowing, was as painful as the loss of our sweety. Edward, his litter-mate, went into a funk. We cried. But about three months after he left, we accepted his loss. Even Edward accepted it.

Still we longed for closure. Be careful what you long for. We got our closure on June 13th.

After a joyous day of kitty frolicking, Mr. Edward suddenly lost the use of his back legs. He dragged himself home in the dead of night, and our nice neighbor came to tell us he was injured. A quick trip to the vet and one euthanasia later, we knew. Both of our kittens had a heart defect which resulted in deadly blood clots.

It sucked.

But for two baby boys who were found in a field, they had a great life. Their rescuers bottle-fed them, adored them and snuggled them. When we adopted them they gained seven new adoring fans. They had snuggles, warm beds, great food. They had each other. They had such joi de vivre that passersby would stop and watch them. Their sweet lives brightened our pathway awhile.

Adieu, my kitty boys.

Nearly Wordless Wednesday

2009-07-01T11:51:00.001-07:00

The Pioneer Trek Reenactment

June 25 -27 2009

Many thanks to Kathy for the great pictures.

A Short One

2009-06-12T08:42:00.000-07:00

Last month as I was sitting in my car outside of the dollar store, I witnessed an accident. One car backed into another. The driver at fault was an older woman. The other driver was a woman in her twenties.

I cringed as I watched them get out of their cars: Cat fight a-comin'. They looked at each other, examined the minimal damage, and then spoke for a few more moments. My window was down and I could hear their conversation.

"Are you OK? "

"Are you? Is your car hurt?"

"Is yours? I am so sorry, dear."

"It's fine. I'm just glad everyone's OK. Are you OK to drive?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine. Thank you, dear."

Then instead of exchanging insurance information, they hugged, got in their cars, and drove away.

On Culling

2009-06-05T13:30:00.000-07:00

The children scream down the hall, "MOM! THE CHICK IS DYING!" I rush to help.

A chick lays stretched out, a long twist of intestine protruding. He will die. Nothing I do can save him. Probably nothing anyone can do could save him. I cradle him in my palm and stroke him softly. He chirps an anxious dirge and arches against his agony. I stroke him back to a neutral position.

Poor baby. I should end his suffering, but I can't. Ways to kill him painlessly flit through my mind; I do nothing but stroke him softly. He arches again. My children's keening in the hall hurts my heart, so ask them to stop so their wailing is not the last sound the chick hears. The children weep their goodbyes.

Silence. Except for the heartless happy chirping of his brooder mates. A last arching. A final chirp. Death.

Oh crap.

What could I have done? Was it contagious? My online search reveals nothing. It's likely a birth injury or some kind of deformity. I should have culled him before his suffering became acute.

Monday morning, two more birds are drooping, their legs splayed in unhealthy directions. They will die. I should cull them.

Oh crap.

I'm not a farmer. I'm not a vet. I'm a mother, a doula: I cannot take life! They lay in my palm—again, sweet and helpless, dying. I must help them. I must. I prepare a small box, cuddle them together on the cloth and place them in the freezer.

Minutes later, I open the freezer door, whispering words, petting the doomed gently. I close it again. Then open it. I can feel their downy heads cooling, their breath slowing. I am doing the right thing. I am killing them. To reassure myself, I mentally replay the chick's death from the day before as I pet and soothe these two through their death. I am doing the right thing. Culling them. Saving them agony. I am doing the right thing.

That afternoon as my ten year old son lays gasping, awaiting an emergency appendectomy, I think of our dead chicks, of the one who suffered, of the two who chilled to death peacefully. I think of my son who would have been hours from death save for the surgeon. My mind wraps around the preciousness of his being, the beauty of him. I ponder the skill and technology being unleashed to save him. In a different era, he would have died.

The irony digs at me. In the past two days, three lives have ended in the hands that now stroke my baby's head. This child will die too, but not today, not tomorrow. God willing, not within my lifetime.

When we return home again, we trade six of our Barred Rock chicks for six Buff Orpington chicks. It's a bad trade. One bird dies sometime in his first night within our home. Two more will die soon. I can see them fading, slowing, refusing to eat or drink. Steeling myself, I place the dying birds in a small box in the freezer and close the door. It is the merciful thing to do.

The miracle of my son's life in the face of death flashes in my memory as one of the birds peeps. I remove them from the freezer. They will not die by my hand. I'll not play God today. Today, I'll simply stand vigil, a witness to their suffering, powerless. Today, I will simply accept God's will.

Today in Chickland

2009-05-27T15:30:00.001-07:00

Click on the picture and it gets huge. Otherwise, some very reliable sources have told me this looks like a collection of roaches.

Curses! A Day Late and a Post Short Again

2009-05-27T08:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday marked my first anniversary as a blogger. I even have the beginnings of an appropriately nostalgic post in my file. I'll finish it at some point.

I love my blog. I love my blogging friends. Nevertheless, playing mommy-nurse to my tyrant child-patient has shoved my virtual life onto a back shelf. For a bit anyhow.

Never fear: I always have more to say, and say it I shall. Later.

TTFN

Appendectomy Anyone?

2009-05-26T09:27:00.001-07:00

Just a brief post to say that my ten year old son decided he has had enough of all those weird come-and-go stomachaches that kept making him tardy for school. He decided to just get over with and have appendicitis instead.

His symptoms were a little wonky so it took me a day before I decided to take him in to the ER. His pain was across the entire midsection of his abdomen, instead of being focused on the right side. He wasn't in immense pain and his pain was getting better, not worse. But no diarrhea, no constipation, no vomiting, no upper or lower abdomen pain. He also was experiencing decided relief laying on his right side. Hm...yes, it could be. Naw, you morbid mom. It's just the flu. Um, but...

Finally, I just decided to stop reading online appendicitis articles and polling friends and to trust my gut feeling. The kid's never been a whiner and a busted appendix could kill him. Best to check it out. Turns out the poor kid's appendix was tucked away behind his intestine and as a result his symptoms were atypical. I thank God that the useless thing didn't rupture.

His surgery went well. He's uncomfortable but they are treating his pain to the good meds. His temperature is fluctuating a bit too much for my taste. (If they don't give kid something for it soon I'm going to have to put on the Mama Bear suit.)

Anyhow here I am enduring countless hours of cartoon network in a Mr. L's hospital room. Amazingly enough, I'm feeling a bit tense. If I could play PathWords on facebook (my favorite brain-number) I would, but I can't seem to get the hang of doing it on the laptop. Since PathWords is out I should be reading blogs a lot today, wandering around saying stupid, distracted things. I'll keep you all posted.

Because I'm Spamming Your Blog Reader with Chickens aka More Pictures

2009-05-21T10:39:00.000-07:00

The moist guy is third hatched, but I can only tell the first two apart by their voices. Number one is a loud beak!

Number Three Pips

2009-05-21T10:17:00.000-07:00

A Chick has Hatched

2009-05-20T20:26:00.000-07:00

Don't worry he'll fluff up!

Then it said, "Peep!"

2009-05-20T10:11:00.000-07:00

Breaking News!

2009-05-20T10:08:00.001-07:00

This is what we are doing RIGHT NOW!

Not Counting Our Chickens Quite Yet

2009-05-16T15:06:00.000-07:00

Long, long ago, the La Family had chickens.

Really cute chickens. (The kids aren't too bad either.)

Alpha and Beta are the red ones, the first and second to hatch. (Sadly, Omega the third and last to hatch had an unfortunate incident which prevented him from being photographed.) (Yeah, he died. Let's not discuss it.) My friend gave us Black and Blue. (Guess which set I named and which set the kids named.)

It was a great school project! The kids learned a lot and we had some pretty yummy eggs. We ended up sending our lovely hens to the country to live a happy life, giving eggs to a loving adoptive family. (Go with it, OK?)

ANYHOW...

it's chicken time again.

We've got 42 eggs incubating away. Thirty-four of them came in the mail. We're expecting a pretty low hatch rate for those. They were all brown eggs and Carolina Biological Supply can give us no hint whatsoever as to the breed.

Eight of the chicks have come from a crazy chicken lady across town. Hopefully, those will be Buff Orpingtons. When we candled them last week (peeked at their little shadows with a flashlight) it looked like six of them were developing normally and two were duds.

(^^ That there purdy bird is a Buff Orpington. ^^)

Hatch day is Thursday. In theory. Assuming we haven't messed up in some fundamental way. (I got really nervous last time too.)

J is designing a movable hen house for the Buffs. In theory. Perhaps if I ask him to create it out Rubik's Cubes he's be more likely to get into it.

The kids will sell the extras to help fund some of their activities. Assuming there are extras. I'll keep you posted.

[As an aside, sorry for the disappearing post the other day. I'd said a simple apology and a polite request would remove my grievances from the blog world. The owner of a certain rollerskating rink apologized and said his future coupons would be more specific. And voila, a disgruntled customer is appeased. It's like magic.]

[If you must know the details, email me and I'll send my copy of the post to you.]

Empathy

2009-05-07T18:22:00.000-07:00

Just because I'm in a bit of a funk doesn't mean you should have to suffer Jami-withdrawal. Here is an older post of mine that applies even more today than the day I wrote it.

In the eighties, my sister, my mother and I, separated by hundreds of miles, had a bonding ritual. Each week we would watch "Star Trek: The Next Generation" then call each other to have a little trekkie chat. My sister and I were completely unified in our mockery of Counselor Deanna Troi, an empath, a really irritating empath. She'd stand on the bridge, stare out into space and look pained. "I sense confusion [pain/sorrow/negative emotion du jour]" We were fairly certain that a good laxative would take care of poor Deanna's constant suffering.

Recently, I've felt a bit like the well-intentioned, but infinitely mockable Deanna as I stare into the vast Internet and feel the suffering. I wander around peeking into the lives of amazing people, their marriages, children, jobs. Their tragedies. It hurts and a laxative has given no relief. The pain is spiritual: the death of a loved one, the loss of faith, mental illness, disability, unemployment, poverty, pregnancy complications, the sorrows of real people I have come to love.

I promised when I was baptized that I was willing to mourn with those who mourn, to comfort those who stand in need of comfort. When a local friend has a miscarriage, I can hold her, cry with her, bring her a casserole and some helpful herbs. When an Internet friend suffers a miscarriage, all I can do is cry and pray that someone will hold her, bring her a casserole, and maybe some helpful herbs.

Perhaps there is some wisdom in the concept of not becoming emotionally involved with strangers, but as I ponder the Savior taking upon himself all of the physical, emotional, and spiritual pain of the world, I have a have a hard time believing that emotional distance is how we become more Christ-like. So I pray and occasionally send a poem. It's really all I can do which is, I guess, better than what Deanna, the hand-wringer, would do.

Life is pain. The joy that the scriptures talks about is not smiling through the death of a child, or humming happily as someone relearns how to walk. It is an eternal joy that comes when Jesus who vicariously suffered for us, who knows and loves us, removes the pain, brings peace to the troubled, heals the scars, and makes us whole again.

I Need More

2009-05-06T11:45:00.000-07:00

I think I may need an adjustment on my anti-depressants. I'm hoping that doubling the dosage will bring the excellent mood lift that the current dosage used to bring.

We may need to move to the half-gallon, but if that doesn't work I may have to take drastic measures to restore my equilibrium.

What's Good for the Gosling is Good for the Other Gosling

2009-05-02T18:21:00.000-07:00

Because I posted J-Teen's video, N-girl has created a video for the blog world.

She's a delightful girl who is very fond of cute things and now knows how awesome is spelled. Even though she doesn't want to redo the entire video, she'd still like me to post it.

You're welcome.

Not to Whine or Anything

2009-04-28T17:56:00.000-07:00

Here I find myself, several weeks into a bout of writer's block that is not a matter of having nothing to say, but rather a matter have only grumpy things to say. I keep trying to wait out the crap until I have something cheerful to say, but I've decided that I won't find cheerfulness by allowing myself to fill to the brim with doom. Perhaps a little purging will help.

I just need to list the stuff that has happened in my neighborhood.

On a gorgeous Spring day about three weeks ago, my next-door neighbor (a truly nice guy) died in front of my house. He slumped over in his little scooter right in front of my driveway. I'm glad he was out and about, because he loved the open air. Still...
Early Sunday morning somebody knocked on a neighbor's front door. As the neighbor was unlocking the door, a gun was fired through the closed door. The refrigerator next to door stopped the bullet from continuing into the front room where the children lay sleeping. It's one of those places where a dozen people are shoved into 500 sq ft. And people come and go all hours of the day and night. It was about something, but everyone has a different version of what that something was. Maybe race. Maybe drugs. Maybe a woman. Maybe revenge. No telling really.
Across the street we've got another place with a dozen people in it. They're dealing meth.
On the other side of my house, the house has been "empty" for a few months. The guys who were living there had never paid any rent, other than the original deposit. They didn't speak and were rather secretive. Kind of creepy really. I wasn't sad when they were evicted. But I was sad when I found out that a variety of homeless druggies have been squatting in the place while it's been empty. It does look like a nice couple is moving in now. The mom works for the property management company that has been hired to clean up the crazy mess.
Just past that house is our neighborhood convicted rapist who has paid his debt to society. He's a friendly fellow. He likes to give the kids ice cream and dollar bills.
Just past him is the house that was raided about six months back by fifteen police officers with riffles and bulletproof vests. Immigration issues.
The teenyboppers/Serrano gang members wander up and down our street, swearing at each other. We've got a little graffiti here, a pair of shoes hanging on the telephone wires there. It's charming. Adds that je ne sais quoi.

And I am stuck here. Yes, I could let the bank repossess the house. Yes, I could move to some cheaper part of the country with no job, no savings. Seems like a bad plan though. Anyhow, thanks for listening: I just needed to spew.

I'm Out Visiting Today

2009-04-17T19:35:00.000-07:00

I'm guest-posting over at Dunhaven Place today, while Heidi enjoys a well-earned Spring break with her family. Come over and say hi! Browse around while you're there. Heidi's blog does not suffer from UBS (Ugly Blog Sydrome) as mine does. She scatters beauty everywhere she goes!

Rejoice, He Lives Again and So Shall We!

2009-04-12T11:45:00.000-07:00

[Hat tip tp Motherboard]

Easter

2009-04-11T21:58:00.000-07:00

A Link Worth Pursuing

2009-04-10T21:53:00.000-07:00

For those of you who have been concerned about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints' position regarding the former priesthood ban, Ray (aka Papa D) has put together an excellent collection of "powerful modern prophetic utterances" clarifying the equality of all of God's children: Repudiating Racist Justifications Once and For All.

Go. Read. Remember.

[For additional information, see Official Declaration—2]

My House is a Disaster, but My Yard is Looking Nice.

2009-04-07T17:30:00.000-07:00

Behold, my glorious California poppies:

This is the lovely and oh so fragrant Rosa rugosa "Roseraie de l’Hay" She's supposed to be a huge thorny 6 foot living fence between my family and the cold cruel world.

Maybe in another few years.

In the meantime, isn't she gorgeous? And what a heavenly perfume!

Here's my cute little my broccoli which I hope will grow bigger without going to seed. I've got about eight others that are trying to decide if they are going to bring forth plentifully or not.

Happy Spring!

Where Should the La Family Move? In Theory.

2009-04-02T11:00:00.000-07:00

I want to move. Quickly and permanently. I had a nice long post about all the reasons we ought to move, but let's just leave it at a simple my neighborhood leaves much to be desired. (Feel free back me up on this one, Wendy and Natalie.) It's not going to happen, but I like to dream.

I'm looking for a good place to move and want your suggestions. Here's my wish list:

sidewalks
LDS church within ten miles
children in the neighborhood
safe enough that responsible people let their children play outside alone
reasonably priced
casual
no annual anti-Mormon events
a good library
higher education located within twenty miles
no free roaming alligators or huge cockroaches
low crime
low community drug use
a vibrant homeschool community
mild winters
normal everyday people walk and bike to their destination sometimes
political, ethnic and religious diversity
low unemployment
neighbors who intend to stay in the area until their children are raised
not located on a fault line, a floodplain or on the edge of a cliff

There are two or three local communities that fulfill most of desires, but that pesky "reasonably priced" doesn't bend. At all. And those great communities do not come cheaply. If I come into a half million dollars or the ability to pay for a $500,000 mortgage, I'd have it all under control, but so far I haven't and I don't. SO give me a name to match my dream, your favorite "nice places to raise a family."

I'm Pregnant

2009-04-01T11:49:00.000-07:00

OK, not really!

APRIL FOOLS!

Thank all of you sweet sensitive people who offered sympathy. You are so nice. You'd never do anything like trying to flip all of your friends out.

Kristina P, Melinda, Annette and Jo all ratted me out early on so I deleted their comments (with a quick email explaination) so that the rest of you might possibly fall for it. Tee-hee.

Thanks for making my Wacky Wednesday a little more fun!

MMB's March Giveaway!

2009-03-23T22:10:00.000-07:00

I can resist doubling my chances for winning something fun at Mormon Mommy Blogs this month. You can enter too. I guess telling you that decreases my chances. Hm. Somebody want to run the numbers on that one for me?

Post or Perish?

2009-03-22T18:50:00.000-07:00

Ever have one of those time periods when you have nothing useful to add to the human conversation and you're out of cute stories and pictures and the stuff you want to write about you want to keep to yourself? No? Oh good. That means there will be something cool to read when I come moseying by your blogs.

I promise to post again soon. Probably three or four posts all at once because when the old grey matter decides to purge, my creations will likely be deep and often poignant. Probably wordy. Possibly amusing. Come back then, my friends.

In the meantime, seventy people a day shall come and look at the pictures of nits and lice, of President Lincoln and family, and for some odd reason the picture of Heidi and me arm wrestling. Thank you, Google images.

O Farewell My Pride, I Shall Miss Thee

2009-03-16T08:54:00.000-07:00

[Alternate title: If the shoe fits wear it, if you can find it, because the mighty uncomfortable road to hell is paved with good intentions.}

As you might imagine, getting six kids ready for church every week is a stressful event under the best of circumstances. During our weekly public presentation of the La Family, it's nice if everyone is wearing underwear and has been bathed in the last month. People are looking. Really they are. Every time I convince myself that no one cares what we look like, someone blows a hole in my delusion with a well placed comment. Or by an entire ad lib addition to a talk.

This week we had underwear, everyone was freshly bathed, and we even had clean church attire. And we were on track for a timely arrival. I was feeling good. Right up until shoe-time. Those shoes—those blasted, infuriating shoes—were our dilemma this week.

We do have a central location where the shoes belong. It is just not working out as well as I had hoped it would, not normally a big deal. I hardly ever wear shoes. I live in California. It's comfy to go shoeless.

Anyhow four of us had shoe crisises yesterday. Three of us experienced a happy ending to our crisis. Alas not I: I went to church barefoot this week. After thirty minutes looking for a pair of my own shoes that matched, I gave up. I found a dozen single shoes, and not a pair among them. What are the chances? Pretty high around here actually.

My teen and I wear the same size shoes so there are our two ~~black holes~~ bedrooms that swallow unwary soles. The baby loves shoes too. She carries them hither and yon, dropping one yon, the other hither. Sometimes I find my shoes in the toy sty box, sometimes outside, sometimes in the towel cabinet. Not this time.

This time I gave up looking for the shoes, bit the bullet and went to church shoeless. Attending church is more important than my pride. Right? Jesus would rather have me at church barefoot than blogging at home barefoot. Right? I need to go to church. Right? I can be reverent and barefoot. I can sit with my feet under my chair and no one will notice. Right? Right?

We came in twenty-five minutes late and sat in the very last row. The children immediately scattered to the far winds. Tithing slips. Bathroom. Drinks. In vain did I motion for them to return. So I took a couple deep cleansing breaths and settled down to hear the pleasing word of God, tucking my feet discretely beneath my chair.

The Stake President arose, began to praise punctuality for and reverence during Sacrament Meeting, wearing one's best in church, polishing one's shoes, etcetera. Um, I polished my feet with one of those little pedi-egg things on Saturday. I was wearing the best clean dress I owned. I intended to be on time. Surely, surely that counts.

I was squirming and thinking of the bad luck of my shoes going AWOL on our annual reverence Sunday. And then...and then...he said that he had gone on long enough and that he needed to move on to the talk he had written. ARG! This wasn't a planned talk. It was ad lib, ad hoc, directed right ad me.

I fought the urge to run home. I bit the bullet harder, held my head up high, and walked carefully through the crowded halls to Sunday School. The closest available seat was a couple of feet away from the Stake President. I sat.

Oh well. It really is more important to be at church than to have shoes on. Still, I think I'll find my shoes on Saturday next week.

Allow Me to Recommend A Good Clean Read

2009-03-12T09:00:00.000-07:00

Last month, I was one of the lucky few who got a chance to get my virtual hands on an early copy of Annette Lyon's recently released novel, Tower of Strength. When the bookstore called me Tuesday to tell me they had just received their shipment, it was all I could do not to say, "Na-na-na-na-na, I've already read it!" However, I nobly resisted the temptation. I am actually still going to buy my own copy as I long to hold the actual book, smell the new book smell, and feel the silky cover and...well, I might as well admit it: I'm addicted to physical books. Anyhow...

This is the first of Annette's books that I've read, and I was just a wee bit worried that I'd have a bad experience. I really like Annette's blog, but I'm not a whole-hearted fan of LDS fiction. Sometimes the genre can be just the teensiest bit preachy, the tiniest bit sexist, and the itsiest bit nauseous. Example:

Let me assure you, you'll get none of that nonsense in Tower of Strength, the sweet, poignant love story of two strong, talented protagonists set against the backdrop of the construction of the Manti temple in the late 1800s. Tabatha, widowed seven years, and Samuel, recently widowed, have a rough path to their happily ever after. The novel nicely captures the fluttery attraction and sweet anticipation of their new love while exploring the emotional complexities of second love.

As you would expect in a book published by Covenant, it is squeaky clean, delightfully devoid of any crudity. It's a book I could recommend without reservation to anyone from the most innocent pre-teen to the sweetest of grandmothers. Thanks Annette for taking the time to craft such an enjoyable story.

Want to know more? Here are a few of the other stops on Tower of Strength's blog tour:

Oh and I almost forgot! Annette is having a HUGE giveaway at her blog. Go enter. There's still time!

Praise and thanks be to the Yvil Sister

2009-03-10T08:23:00.001-07:00

Mission San Francisco de Solano, front

Mission San Francisco de Solano, back

L-Boy is in fourth grade, which in California means a California Mission Project (CMP). The Y-vil sister went to the craft store and bought stuff—a styrofoam do-it-yourself model, a bunch of cute plastic thingies, some peat moss and a bag of sand. Then she had three making the CMP dates with L. I don't know who had the better time. Yvil was like a little kid in an art class, L was serious, yet happy, and I was out of a dreaded task.

Yvil delegated the procurement of the cross and the CMP fact card to me. Two things. You think I could have excelled. But as we all know in addition to being more fun than mom, aunties are also more efficient.

Although I looked very thoroughly in all of my normal [cheap] stores, the only cross I found that was the right size and not firmly attached to an angel was a chocolate one. I got it, but Yvil had already given up on me and had carved one out of leftover styrofoam. Thus did L gain a snack.

Then Mr. L and I nearly came to blows over the CMP facts card last night. In the end, the card came out looking great. L and I had a big long snuggle to make up for the grumping. Still I was emotionally spent; just imagine if Yvil hadn't taken care of the hard part. I owe her. Big time.

Great job, L. I love you.

I Love Goodwill!

2009-03-07T23:01:00.001-08:00

I have been wanting this for about five years. It costs $89 plus shipping from Magic Cabin. I found it in perfect condition for $4.99 at Goodwill tonight. Rejoice with me, my friends!

I Covet the Kindle 2

2009-03-06T08:53:00.000-08:00

Ooooo-ahhhh!

Ain't she a beaut!

Quick Announcement

2009-03-05T19:27:00.000-08:00

Love you all. I'm going to make my following status private. Don't take it personally. I still love you. I'll still read you. But the clique issues that have been raised in some circles have caused me concern that I might inadvertently be slighting someone. Don't want to do that. Not following publicly is my best shot at being clique neutral.

Smiles everyone, smiles!

Square Root Day?

2009-03-03T09:20:00.000-08:00

3/3/9

Hm. Well 3 x 3 = 9. So the square root of nine would be three. But it's a bit of a stretch to call it Square Root Day. After all, the year is two thousand and nine A.D.

If Hallmark comes out with a card, I'm going to begin an international protest. But as long as Hallmark stays out of it, I'm as willing to celebrate a fake holiday as the next person. Behold "my" creation!

And in the spirit of the day I'll even do a little advance planning for a year that is actually a square number: 2025 (square root = 45). Let's all get excited on the 45th day of 2025. OK, friends, pencil it in. February 14, 2025. And I've found the perfect location for our celebration. Bring your sweetheart! Who's in?

Another One

2009-03-02T07:59:00.000-08:00

I know I'm killing my stats by posting odd videos from my son, but I can't help it. He's so crazy pleased with himself and I'm crazy in love with the kid, so here you go--another one.

Apparently the last video was posted with an inadequate amount of background, so allow me to explain. Mr. J, my beloved 14 year old, is obsessed with puzzles. He loves trying to solve them in record time. (I think he's down to 38 seconds on the flat Rubik's Magic puzzle featured in the previous video.) His newest use of his camera and his time has been this stop-motion animated self-solving Rubik's Cube. His cube is painted because he wore all the stickers off. Wore. The. Stickers. Off. Anyhow, enjoy my baby boy's little game. It's only a minute and five seconds.

My Son's Bizarre Obsession and Achievement

2009-02-26T07:54:00.000-08:00

Impressive, n'est-ce pas?

[FYI: It's a Rubik's Magic puzzle.]

Lookie What God Gave Me!

2009-02-25T20:55:00.000-08:00

It's been a fairly stressful couple of weeks, and I was beginning to feel the strain on my mental health. God ever so kindly arranged for Spring to spring yet again. I love Him!

A few pretties from my yard:

A Teeny Tiny Poll

2009-02-25T08:44:00.000-08:00

By Common Consent has a post up which has made me wonder...

What is the name of your blogging world?

1. The Bloggosphere.

2. The Bloggernacle.

3. Neither

4. Both

The real poll is on the sidebar. Leave a comment if your blog world has a different name than either of the two in the poll. Or just chat at length about anything you feel like. But go vote on the poll, because I feel sad when only my kids and I vote.

Just a few tidbits today.

2009-02-20T11:00:00.000-08:00

As always, my miscellany contains some of the most insightful and fascinating tidbits to be found on the web.

1. I took the "Which Hogwarts' House Do You Belong To?" quiz on facebook, and I'm a Hufflepuff. What?!? I'm brave. I'm smart. Hufflepuff? What a disappointment. Yeah, yeah, I make a great friend. Whatever.

2. Last weekend, I had an adventure. I went somewhere. Friday night and ALL day Saturday. Woo-hoo! The Yvil Sister and I went to Heidi Ashworth's book signing down in the East Bay. As expected, Heidi was a delight, her family and friends too. I had a fantastic time, and Yvil, the blog-hater, was a good sport.

Here's the one and only picture my sister took of the two of us. Yes, we are arm wrestling. At Applebee's. I won. Easily. Only to be expected given my weight advantage.

3. Having closely examined the above picture, I have made a surprising discovery. I need to lose some weight. 140 is a nice even number. Roughly half of me. And yet...

My car is currently stuffed with them, all waiting to be delivered to our cookie-loving neighbors, tempting me. (Oh, how they tempt me!) I am not good with temptation. (She types, munching a Samoa/Carmel Delight.) It may be time to attempt a second fake gastric bypass.

4. Do not buy the Daisy Go Round Girl Scout cookies. You have been warned.

5. I am getting an unholy amount of money from my tax return. Hate to give TMI, but for those of you who question the socialist nature of our government, ponder this:

My husband made roughly $24,000 last year. They took out $2,700 in federal income tax, a purposeful over-withholding. Our income tax return should be $2,700, what we paid. But no. The Earned Income Credit and the Additional Child Tax Credit are both "refundable." In other words, if the tax credits are more than the taxes owed by a family, the family receives the difference added as a freebie to their tax return. To the tune of $6,000 additional dollars in the case of our family. That's $8,700 all together.

Wow, you say? Wow, indeed. Don't get me wrong; I'll spend it. It just doesn't seem especially fair to have you all support my family in this way. Yeah, I know you like me (I am a Hufflepuff, after all), but would you hand me the money out of your family's funds? Especially if I didn't even ask. Or say thank you. Anyhow...thank you. Sorry I didn't ask. I'll try to use better manners next year.

Quick Update

2009-02-18T14:36:00.000-08:00

I met with the Principal today. What a painful experience that was! The bottom line is that the school staff will now be checking the bathrooms during lunch. The principal was much less laissez-faire than his secretary. And that's a good thing.

Less Angry Today

2009-02-15T10:52:00.000-08:00

Just a quick note to say that removing V from the dangerous situation known as the elementary school has really comforted her. The sobbing and constant whining is gone; my sweet little humming girl has returned. She and L still wrangle, but that's normal.

I am so mad I could scream and scream and scream!

2009-02-13T12:00:00.000-08:00

As I was withdrawing V from school today, I spoke to the "lady in the office." I thought I'd give the school a little tip. Their bathrooms need to be at least lightly supervised. Allowing "at-risk" children a private place for up to a half an hour with other "at-risk" children seems like a bad idea.

Her response? "That was only two kindergarten girls, Mrs. La. And we are dealing with that."

[WHAT?!?! That was not the incident to which I was referring. So LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT: You, the school personnel, know that crap is happening to kids in the bathrooms. And you are doing NOTHING to prevent it happening to other children.]

"How about if you put cameras in the non-potty portion of the room, so that..."

"Oh no! We couldn't do that! Privacy. Mrs. La, we don't even have cameras to prevent break-ins."

"Perhaps...the yard duties could swing through the bathrooms every now and then. Or there could be some kind of system to keep track of how long children have been in the bathroom or..."

"Mrs. La, where would we get the funding for any of those things? Besides we haven't had any parents complain"

[Where are you going to get the funding for the million dollar lawsuit that someone is going to file against the school district, because YOU FLIPPIN' KNOW that crap is happening in the bathrooms?]

"Well, my V was harmed in there. I can't let her be here if no one can protect her. Obviously, it's happening more than you realize."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Mrs. La."

HOW ELSE WOULD I FEEL? Merciful heavens, what in the world is wrong with you people? No, seriously. Have you lost your minds?

The mystery of V's non-stop crying at home has been solved. Sobbing and whining and whimpering, she was driving us all crazy. And the poor kid was trying to work out some way to say, "help me," without getting in trouble or getting her "friends" in trouble. Poor baby.

Happy 200th, Mr. Lincoln

2009-02-12T11:45:00.000-08:00

Abraham Lincoln:

A great man.

An ugly man.

Gifted speaker.

Unelectable today.

Complex.

Melancholy.

Witty.

Tragic.

Wise.

Brave.

Resolute.

Brilliant.

Faithful.

A loving father.

Difficult marriage.

Recovering racist.

Emancipator.

Misunderstood.

Detested.

Beloved.

Savior of the United States.

God alone understands

the complexity of his mind, the difficulty of his task,

and the enormity of his accomplishments.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Lincoln.

And thank you.

Above: a young Abraham Lincoln, tussled as usual.

Above: a young Mary Todd Lincoln

Above: Robert Lincoln, the Lincolns' firstborn, was 22 years old

at the time of his father's assassination.

Above: Eddy Lincoln, their second son, died at age 4 of tuberculosis.

Above: Willie Lincoln, third born, died shortly after his 11th birthday.

Above: Tad Lincoln, fourth son, aged 12 at the time of his father's death, died at aged 18.

Above: President Lincoln and his son Tad

Above: Lincoln with Allan Pinkerton and Major General John Alexander McClernand at Antietam.

Above: The Ford Theater

Left: Abraham Lincoln in his stovepipe hat.

Right: Mary Todd Lincoln

The Baby is Learning English

2009-02-10T20:14:00.000-08:00

Her pronunciation leaves a bit to be desired, but Baby C's English is coming along fine. Today as she was laying down for a nap, she quizzed me about her next meal.

"Pizza in the oven? Right now!"

"Sorry, sweetheart."

"Chee-os?"

"Maybe later."

"Kitten nuggets? Peeeease."

"Chicken nuggets?"

Big smile. "KITTEN NUGGETS!"

"Chicken. Say, 'chicken.'"

"Kit-ten," she said slowly, so I wouldn't get confused.

"Um...maybe I'll get some at the store. Chicken nuggets."

"Kitten nuggets!"

"OK, fine. Kitten. I'll see what I can do."

I really hope that things don't turn out looking like this:

Perfect Parenting Revisited

2009-02-06T18:14:00.000-08:00

One of my favs from way back when nobody but people I nagged read my blog. Originally posted June 10, 2008

Good Children from Perfect Parenting

I freely admit I was a know-it-all, one of those women-girls you kind of just want to swat. I knew that when a child was old enough to discuss their diaper, it was time to potty-train; when a child could undo their mother's buttons, it was time to wean. "No" was a word that should be used rarely to maintain its power for important stuff, like not drinking poison. When a child spoke to you, you should stop what you were doing and look her in the eyes, focusing on her words and body language.

Not only did I know it all, I was happy to share it, with my friends, with my babysitting clients, with my dates, with my mom, with anyone who stood still long enough to let me spew my wisdom on them. To all of you who knew what the battle was like on the ground, forgive me please. If you will forgive, I promise not to swat any of the young mothers, newly-married wives, or brainy teens who tell me all about perfect parenting.

My parenting world is filled with questions. Where I once knew exactly what the appropriate parenting choice was for any given situation, now I am unsure about so many things. One of the most basic of all parenting issues--helping your child be good--fills me with consternation.

What is a "good" child? At this point in the game, I really define good as peaceful and quiet, but I'll share this quote from Alfie Kohn's Unconditional Parenting that has set me to thinking:

Good is an adjective often laden with moral significance. It can be a synonym for ethical or honorable or compassionate. However where children are concerned the word is just as likely to mean nothing more than quiet--or, perhaps, not a pain in the butt to me...this is what many people in our society seem to want most from children: not that they are caring or creative or curious, but simply that they are well behaved. A "good" child--from infancy to adolescence--is one who isn't too much trouble to grown-ups. (page 2)

Mr. Kohn (I always want to call him Alfie--such a great name) goes on for the two hundred some-odd pages discussing parenting, loving without controlling and a bevy of other thoughtful, logical ideas. I read and think "Yep, mm-hm, you go Alfie!"

Then home life as it really exists comes flaring into my mind and I have very little idea of how to stop the fratricide without defying all the principles of excellent parenting. How can we make it to the ethical, honorable, compassionate kind of good if we don't start out by mastering the not hellions at home or in public kind of good? Still working on that one. Oh, how I wish I still knew it all!

I Know They Say

2009-02-06T08:57:00.000-08:00

I know that they say that before we were born we were given full disclosure regarding the trials of this life, but it's a teeny bit like getting a toddler to commit to a college. We had no idea. From the first breath we drew (Waah! That hurts!) to our first heartbreak (Oh ow!) to our last breath (One can only assume that will smart as well.) we are confronted with physical and spiritual difficulties that we could not have comprehended in that glorious God-lit council in heaven. So here we all are in the midst of trials that the eye can't see and I find no comfort at all in cheesy sayings. I don't know how God holds it together knowing it all. I just don't.

Peace and Wisdom in 313 Words

2009-02-04T11:02:00.000-08:00

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant, they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is perennial as the grass.

Take kindly to the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.

Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

(Max Ehrmann c.1920)

Double Dipping

2009-01-31T09:30:00.000-08:00

I know this is lazy, but I'm posting it anyhow. The pyramid tag of the new year. I've already tagged my TWENTY-FIVE people over on facebook, but if you feel left out you can post 25 things about yourself and tag TWENTY-flippin'-FIVE friends of your own. (Did I mention that I think 25 is a pretty unworkable number of people to tag?) Anyway with no further ado, I give you:

25 Random Things about ME

1. I love to read, write and talk.

2. I love to listen so long as I don't have to wait too long before I get to read, write or talk.

3. I am a poor wait-er. I don't start reading series until they are finished. Harry Potter about killed me.

4. I love teaching.

5. I've got six kids. They are some of the smartest, cutest people I know.

6. I've got a brother in the Army and a sister in the Navy.

7. I wish that Alice from the Brady Bunch or someone very much like her lived with my family.

8. I love poetry.

9. I detest Huckleberry Finn. I own three or four copies of Cliff Notes for Huck because I've never been able to find the previous copy when I have been forced once again to read the greatest American novel.

10. I love Jane Austen. It cracks me up that Mark Twain detested her works.

11. I love to bake, but hate to cook.

12. When I go to thrift stores, I tend to rearrange their books into more logical order. Atonement doesn't really belong in the religion section. Neither does Paradise.

13. I don't do 13.

14. My bookshelves are a crazy mess.

15. My favorite meal is steak, corn on the cob, tomato soup and baked potatoes. I haven't eaten it in about ten years.

16. Milk is my favorite liquid. Skim. The fattier versions don't get cold enough and feel kind of slimy to me.

17. Seventeen is my favorite number.

18. I joined the Mormon Church/Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints when I was fifteen years old.

19. My family was really miffed about number 18.

20. I can't swim well, but I love water. I wish I could be in a pool all summer long.

21. I blog at www.supermisc.blogspot.com . (But you know that. Did I promise revelations? No I promised double dipping.)

22. I met my husband when I was twenty-two, even though we lived within two miles of each other for the majority of our childhoods.

23. I still don't know my twelve times tables perfectly. And I always have to think about 7x8, 8x6, and 6x7. (I can figure them out, though. Yay me!)

24. I married my husband when I was twenty-four. We just celebrated our seventeenth anniversary.

25. I homeschool my kids. All of them some of the time. Some of them most of the time. They are crazy smart and keep me from succumbing to senility.

Weeping Wednesday or Blogging is Cheaper Than Therapy

2009-01-29T11:15:00.000-08:00

At the very reasonable request of my oldest, I have taken down my whiny post which was flattering to no one in the family. Thanks for the loves and sympathy. Now pretend you never read it. That works. Right?

Because Won Can Never Overestimate the Use of Good Grammer

2009-01-27T09:27:00.000-08:00

I guess it's time to post again since everybody has come and visited now. Except Ray and Elastic who are busy and stressed at the moment. They are excused.

Now, for the rest of you. I give you a visual to please your ever-pendantic minds.
By the way, the comments at Graphjam may amuse some of the Grammar Nazis among us. Certainly made me simile.

Why Do I Wear Dresses All the Time?

2009-01-25T13:33:00.000-08:00

As a pseudo-feminist, I oughta be against the concept of wearing a dress. But I'm not. I like them. A lot.

They are comfy.
They are cooler than pants. If they made dresses with built in air conditioners, I would max out my credit card for one. Especially if it came in purple.
Way back when I was thin, my bottom was round and my waist was tiny. Like 45": 23" Find jeans for that!
I don't have to try and match. Got the top? The bottom comes with it. That way my disorganization doesn't result in nudity.
Only one thing to wash, dry, fold, and put away. Especially now that nylons are so passé.
When I buy dresses at Goodwill I only have to pay for one item to get an entire outfit.
I can lose or gain about 20 lbs without having to buy new clothes.
I can pull it on in about 15 seconds, 35 max. I've always preferred sleep to primping.
They are pretty.
The Yvil sister hates them. It's important that we maintain that polar opposites thing.

Ta-DA! Now you know.

Jerry Springer Strikes Again

2009-01-23T13:00:00.000-08:00

Well, in an effort to improve my blog traffic I arranged for a little event yesterday. My neighbor lost his mind. Now that doesn't happen every day. Oh, come on! Doesn't that make you want to click over here just a little bit?

It was a dark and stormy morning. [Really, I'm not making that up.] As I was lying down with my baby at nap time, a huge crunch disturbed our peace. The unmistakable crumpling crunchy thud of fiberglass and metal hitting something very solid. I bolted out of bed and ran to the window. Not a thing. Moments later J came running in, "Where's the phone? A van just crashed. In front of the neighbor's house, into their tree."

How fast can a woman dial 911? Pretty darn fast. I reported the accident and ran out to see if anyone needed help. The van had hit the tree alright. Hard. But the airbag had not deployed and there was no one to be seen anywhere.

Curious and concerned, I approached the front door. Much screaming and swearing greeted me. A fight was clearly in progress. I tentatively knocked. As fools rush in where angels fear to tread, I knocked harder.

The door opened and Little T and Baby A peeked out. "Hi Jami. Where's V?" L.T. said as if there wasn't a car wrapped around their tree and lunatic raving in the living room.

"Hi dude. Is your mom here?"

M rounded the corner, calm, resolute. "Hi, Jami."

"Um, are you OK?"

"No."

"Um, I called 911. The police are coming. Do you want me to call back?"

"No."

"Would you...uh...do you think maybe the kids would like a play date?"

Long pause. "Yeah. Thanks. That's a good idea."

"Hey guys! Wanna come over and play with N and C?"

"YAY!"

So over they came. N pulled out her babysitting bag. She was totally prepared for just such a moment. Games, coloring, fun galore. As the festivities were getting under way, a different neighbor came to my door and motioned me outside.

"Jami, the police are here."

"Yeah, I know. I've got the kids."

"They have guns."

"What?" I stepped out further. The police were blocking the roads. Easily a dozen of them were setting up behind the shrubbery in the park, behind the bounce house and tree at the church across the street, on the roof of the house behind the screamer. Shields, bullhorns, and sure enough...guns.

"Oh crap. I've got to tell her." [Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.] I began walking to the screaming house.

"WALK AWAY FROM THE HOUSE. GO BACK INTO YOUR HOUSES," bullhorned the spastic police officer.

I pondered obeying him as I continued toward the door. This was getting out of control. If I could just tell M what was going on, she could come have a chat and diffuse the situation a bit. What are they going to do: shoot me?

"LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS! WALK AWAY FROM THE HOUSE. GET OVER HERE NOW!" Geez, he was irritating. I stopped walking.

"LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS! STOP! GET OVER HERE NOW." Hm. Idiot. He just might shoot me. I walked over to a calmer more intelligent looking officer. The bullhorn man's head blew off. Something about come here? Jail? Whatever. I was on a mission.

I attempted to gain permission to go over and talk to my friend. How many different ways can an officer say, "HELL NO!"?

"LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS! GO INSIDE YOUR HOUSE." That blasted man was at it again. "LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS!"

I explained to the officer I was standing next to that I wasn't going to go inside, that they were blowing this event way out of proportion. And someone was going to get hurt. [Fools rush in.] The officer informed me that the man had a bow and arrow. I refrained from laughing at him. He told me to go stand back and spoke to Officer Bullhorn who then quieted down.

I stood back and went over to the female police officer. She found a new way to say, "HELL NO!"

They put somebody new on the bullhorn. "RESIDENTS OF 555 ALPHABET STREET: PLEASE COME OUTSIDE." I suspected at the time that the residents of 555 ABC St couldn't hear him, didn't even know they were there. [This was later confirmed.] So we all went through an hour of "Please come out. No one has committed a crime. We just want to talk to you."

Eventually M came outside. I'm guessing to come see how the kids were doing. She looked around calmly, said something quietly to the closest officers and went back inside. She came out again about a half hour later. Whew. I felt better.

After she finished talking to the police, I called her over. She confirmed that her husband had lost his mind, that she'd been trying to get him help, and that no one would help. I spoke to her about her school children. I suggested that I pick them up when I got mine and go directly to McDonalds Playplace. Do not pass home, do not mention the situation. Administer french fries. The plan was approved and I went back home.

As I was crossing the street, "LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS! GO INSIDE YOUR HOME." Yeah, yeah. I waved and pointed at my house. I'm a goin'.

I checked in on J and N. They were doing a great babysitting job. The little monkeys had no idea of the chaos reigning in the street. We can't hear street noises in our house. Thank God! When Little T asked what his mom and dad were doing, I told him they were working on getting the car fixed.

I changed clothes. They seemed to have something against my dress. And headed out again. I stayed in my driveway this time.

Another hour. M's father (the screamer's FIL) came out. Relief and tension warred it out within my psyche. Another half-hour of calm bullhorn coaxing. An occasional riffle twitched in the neighborhood shrubs. I began praying. (Not out loud. Do you think I'm insane?) Suddenly it occured to me that perhaps some of my friends were online and would be willing to pray. I went inside and posted a quick request on this blog and one on facebook. I went back out. Five minutes later the screamer "stood down." He came out, hands up, walking backwards. Hands on head. Hand cuffs on. The SWAT team came out of the bushes and off the roofs, and the dozen police cars began to trickle away.

All before school got out. I confirmed with M that McDonald's was still a good idea, so she could deal with the car, the commitment papers and all that. At that I packed Little T and Baby A into the car, picked up all four of the school kids and went to the golden arches. Yet another justifiable credit card expense. We fiddled around for two hours while I blythely lied through my teeth. [Was it on purpose? I don't know. I didn't see it. Is your dad in the hospital? No. No one was hurt. Were they fighting? Hm. Where's Baby A?]

And then we went home. M took her monkeys inside and explained the whole thing to them. Poor woman. Later that night, because her day had not been quite crappy enough, Little T broke his finger while bouncing in the bounce house at the church across the street. Good times.

Oh and M's birthday is tomorrow. Right. Happy birthday.

Testimony as a Process

2009-01-18T19:00:00.000-08:00

Never, never, never begin your talk with a definition; it's boring and makes people zone out. I read this very recently from a very reliable source, several sources actually. But this isn't actually a talk. It's a buffed up, rearranged, blog version of my talk. Did they say never, never, never begin your post with a definition? Nope. So let's start with a definition. Elder Dallin H. Oaks in General Conference April 2008 gave an excellent one:

A testimony of the gospel is a personal witness borne to our souls by the Holy Ghost that certain facts of eternal significance are true and that we know them to be true. Such facts include the nature of the Godhead and our relationship to its three members, the effectiveness of the Atonement, and the reality of the Restoration.

I frequently hear testimonies being compared to plants (seeds, fruit, etc) or to children. Both need nurturing, but just as no two plants, no two children, develop identically, or even have the same needs, the process each person goes through to gain a testimony is unique.

In October 2008, Elder Carlos Gadoys shared an experience he had in Sunday school while he was visiting as a member of the quorum of the seventy. The teacher asked class members to share significant experiences that they had as they formed their testimonies. As everybody related their experiences, he got the feeling that she was expecting him to share his experience. (I must admit that if a Seventy came to my classroom I'd expect the same.) And so he searched his memory banks and searched and searched and was unable to come up with any major experience that had led to the development of his testimony. That was not his conversion experience. Later that day during Sacrament Meeting he gave his more sedately acquired testimony of the truth of the gospel and of the restoration, and of the reality of God, of our Savior. He adds "Sometimes we think that to have a testimony of the Church, we need some great, powerful experience, or a single event which would erase any doubts that we have received an answer or a confirmation."

Do we need to see an angel, feel a huge fire in our bosom, or be knocked to the ground in order to know for sure that God is real, that Jesus is the Christ, that Joseph Smith was a prophet? It happens to some people, but those one-time memorable experiences are relatively rare, perhaps not even that useful. Elder Gadoy states that a huge spiritual experience doesn’t necessarily result in faith, pointing to Laman and Lemuel in the Book of Mormon as prime examples. They saw an angel, but the moment the angel was out of their sight the excuses began. No lasting faith resulted from their big experience.

Contrast Alma the younger. He was born a member and was taught by the gospel clearly by his parents and at church (or whatever worked for church for them at that time) and then chose not to follow it and in fact chose to fight against it. His father, as we all know, prayed and prayed for his son to have an undeniable experience, and Alma did receive a memorable angelic visit.

“And as I said unto you, as [Alma and the sons of Mosiah] were going about rebelling against God, behold, the angel of the Lord appeared unto them; and he descended as it were in a cloud; and he spake as it were with a voice of thunder, which caused the earth to shake upon which they stood; And so great was their astonishment, that they fell to the earth” Mosiah 27: 11-12

The angel then delivered his message: Stop trying to destroy the church. It’s God's church. Don't mess with it. It’s not that different from the vision that Laman and Lemuel saw. The difference is the choice Alma made afterward. He believed, but not just because of the angel and not just magically out of the blue. He sought the truth.

As he preached among the Nephites, he explained the process he used to learn if his beliefs were true. In Alma 5: 45-47 we read,

Do ye not suppose that I know of these things myself? Behold, I testify unto you that I do know that these things whereof I have spoken are true. And how do ye suppose that I know of their surety?

How does he know? How does he have a testimony? He's about to tell us.

Behold, I say unto you they are made known unto me by the Holy Spirit of God. Behold, I have fasted and prayed many days that I might know these things of myself. And now I do know of myself that they are true; for the Lord God hath made them manifest unto me by his Holy Spirit; and this is the spirit of revelation which is in me.

Fasting and prayer. Those were the tools he used, not just briefly, but many days. The product of using those tools? Spiritual knowledge revealed through the Holy Ghost.

The Book of Mormon doesn't just leave Alma's experiences at that. He dedicated his life to helping people gain testimony. In addition to teaching the Nephites, Alma also went on a mission to the apostate Zoramites. One of the most extended plant analogies we have comes from this portion of his ministry. He’s teaching people who are not likely to get an angelic visitation (like most of humanity) yet he affirms that they can know with a surety. How? Let's go find out. His sermon is recorded in Alma 32:26-272.

Now, as I said concerning faith—that it was not a perfect knowledge—even so it is with my words. Ye cannot know of their surety at first, unto perfection, any more than faith is a perfect knowledge. [Notice we cannot know immediately with perfect knowledge.] But behold, if ye will awake and arouse your faculties, even to an experiment upon my words, and exercise a particle of faith, yea, even if ye can no more than desire to believe, let this desire work in you, even until ye believe in a manner that ye can give place for a portion of my words. (Alma 32: 26-27)

He moves into his analogy.

Now, we will compare the word unto a seed. Now, if ye give place, that a seed may be planted in your heart, behold, if it be a true seed, or a good seed...

Let's pretend. You have two peas, one out of a seed packet, the other from a can of peas. You plant those seeds. One of them is a good seed, very likely to grow. Not by itself, true. Still the other seed is guaranteed not to grow. There are seeds that WON’T grow no matter how well we care for them, seeds that are dead, seeds that aren’t true seeds. OK, back to Alma.

...if ye do not cast it out by your unbelief, that ye will resist the Spirit of the Lord, behold, it will begin to swell within your breasts; and when you feel these swelling motions, ye will begin to say within yourselves—It must needs be that this is a good seed, or that the word is good, for it beginneth to enlarge my soul; yea, it beginneth to enlighten my understanding, yea, it beginneth to be delicious to me. Now behold, would not this increase your faith? I say unto you, Yea; nevertheless it hath not grown up to a perfect knowledge.

Not a perfect knowledge of everything, not yet. We must care for the plant our seed brought forth so that we can have fruit, a perfect knowledge of truth, leading to eternal life.

I have some personal experience in plant care. I love to garden. When it’s cool I’m good with planting and weeding and so forth, but then when it's hot I don’t always get out there and water because...well...it’s hot out there. As a result my plants tend to do the shrivel thing. Not good, but not the poor seeds' fault. Interestingly, my son J has a different method. He plants and weeds, but also waters. It is amazing how much more fruit he got out of his garden than I got out of mine last year.

So it is with a testimony. As we continue to care for the knowledge we have and seek more knowledge, it grows. It's not instantaneous. We don’t plant our seeds one day and have a nice bowl of split pea soup on our table the next. It doesn’t go that way. There’s a lot of nurturing that happens. It’s a process.

I asked friends for their thoughts on a testimony. Let me share a truly beautiful thought from one friend. She hadn't always done the textbook things that are "required" for a testimony and she has felt guilty, that perhaps she didn’t even deserve a real testimony. Then she had an insight.

Simply when I live any part of the gospel in any way, shape, or form. I feel good and I feel love. That is my testimony. That the gospel of Christ and his love for us is the way. No matter on what scale (small or large) I live the gospel, I will always feel and know that.

She listed for some things that have contributed to her testimony. She said that when she reads the Ensign she gets answers to her questions. When she prays she feels God’s love. When she reads the scriptures she feels the truth. When she goes to church and takes the sacrament she feels better. Little seeds developing into plants, finally bearing precious fruit.

As I studied the scriptures, conference talks and spoke to people about testimony, it became clear to me that the path to testimony is as individual as the human soul. The way that I received my knowledge and testimony is unlikely to be the way others receive theirs. Heavenly Father speaks to us through the Holy Ghost, and the Holy Ghost speaks to our spirits in many, many ways.

In Galatians 5:22 where Paul (who , by the way, had his own angel experience and then continued to live righteously) was writing to the Galatians and was talking about the fruit of the Spirit, a list of feelings we can feel when the Spirit is present. (Look, fruit! That whole plant analogy again.)

"But the fruit of the Spirit is love [When we pray we feel Heavenly Father’s love, love for each other.], joy [How many of us when we finally understood something that God has been trying to tell us through the scriptures or a talk have felt joy or been in the temple and have been filled with that peace and joy? Oh look peace that’s next!] peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, Meekness, temperance."

I would add the words of the Lord as recorded in Doctrine and Covenants 46: 13-14. "To some it is given by the Holy Ghost to know that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and that he was crucified for the sins of the world. To others it is given to believe on their words, that they also might have eternal life if they continue faithful." Not everyone will see an angel, not everyone needs to. Burning in the bosom, peace and absolute surety, they aren't for everyone. Sometimes we just believe what someone else has seen.

My experience hasn't been much like Alma's or Paul's, probably not even much like yours. And that's OK, better than OK; it's what I need. God loves me and communicates to me in a way I can understand. God loves you too; He will reveal truth to you so that you can understand. Yes,"in his own time and in his own way, and according to his own will", but rest assured that God will teach you the things you seek to know in the language of your soul. This I know.

In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

Our Carnelian Anniversary

2009-01-17T20:20:00.000-08:00

My favorite number is seventeen. My birthday's on September 17th. Our anniversary is January 17th. And this anniversary is a big one! It's our seventeenth. Our Carnelian Anniversary. (Yes, I did have to look that up.) In honor of the day, here are seventeen tid-bits on the theme of meeting and loving my man.

My love is a gifted musician. Can't really say enough about the music thing, because his talent is so phenomenal and such an intricate part of him.

My man records books. For fun. He's taped Mormon Doctrine a few times. As a Man Thinketh by James Allen many, many times. He's currently moving though the works of Neal A. Maxwell. The dude listens to them while he's at work and in the car, then erases them.

My sweetie changes diapers.

He's a kid magnet. He doesn't do anything at all to attract the little monkeys but they love him.

He's a lifetime member of the John Birch society. Political arguments broke us up several times while we were dating. Politics continued to be a touchy subject for us for the first decade of our marriage, but we finally negotiated a peace treaty. The terms are very snuggly.

The man juggles.

We both grew up in Davis, California a couple blocks away from each other and attended the same schools. My first year in Davis was my third grade year. He's four years older than me, so he'd moved on to the Jr. High. When I got to Jr. High, he'd moved on to the High School. By the time I got to High School, he and his family had moved to Grass Valley. I might have run into him at church but I joined the church when I was a sophomore and his family had already moved.

When I was a kid I used to sing:

I'm in love with a big blue frog,
A big blue frog loves me.
Its not as bad as it appears
He wears glasses and he's six foot three.
Well I'm not worried about our kids,
I know they'll turn out neat.
They'll be great lookin' 'cause they'll have my face,
Great swimmers 'cause they'll have his feet!
Destiny! Kismet! The man is 6'3", he wears glasses, and he has two webbed toes. (He's a normal pinky-beige, however.)

I met my husband after a church dance in the parking lot. His insane friend asked my hot friend to dance. In the parking lot. She answered that there was no music. My music man sang a song for them and they danced right there. I was charmed, so when everyone went out to eat after the parking lot solo, I borrowed his jacket. I was cold, but I had ulterior motives. I was trying to steal it, so I'd have an excuse to call him later. He caught me as we were leaving, so I sheepishly handed it over. Busted. So embarrassing.

When I moved into his ward about six months later, I carefully avoided him. I was dating someone else and my attraction to my future husband was a bit disconcerting.

After I stopped dating the other fellow, I attended a ward family home evening. "Sardines" was the activity that night and I was "it." I chose a nice niche in the shrubbery for my hiding place. As my prey walked by, I gave him a hint. "Psst! In here!" And in he came. Yes! Then he proceeded to pull in the next person that went by. And the next one. And the next one. Hm. There seemed to be a lack of communication going on here.

One day he stopped speaking to me, suddenly, inexplicably. I knew then that he knew The Secret. I liked him. He could tell and was appalled. I was heartbroken. Shortly thereafter, he came into Relief Society to make an announcement. As he turned bright red, tried to become invisible, and was barely able to squeeze out the message, I had a revelation: the man was shy! The man was shy and I'd been clueless. There's only one reason a shy guy stops talking to one of his gal pals. It was all I could do not to stand up, pump my fist into the air and yell "YES!"

Did you really think I was going to write a thirteenth? You know me better than that.

Our first date was a double date. The four of us had been hanging out as a group, but one Sunday, we played Trivial Pursuit, guys against girls. Losers to buy the winners dinner and a round of miniature golf. [BTW, they never stood a chance.] After miniature golf, we drove around in the foothills looking for some sort of astronomical phenomenon that was supposed to be happening. The only phenomenon I saw that night? My shy guy and I set our hands next to each other and our pinkies touched. After about ten minutes of that excitement, he HELD MY HAND!

He kissed me for the first time a few nights later. Then he looked at me and whispered, "Does this mean I get to keep you?"

He spontaneously proposed while I was studying for my Romantic Literature mid-term, abruptly halting my recital of Christibel. I flipped out. (Tend to do that. Perhaps you've noticed.) And made him withdrawal the offer. The next day, I didn't do so well on the exam due to my brain spinning like a top as I pondered my romantic life instead of delightfully morbid, supernatural poetry. A week later, I surprised him by inviting him to resubmit his offer.

We were married in the Oakland Temple on January 17, 1992. For this life and for eternity.

Those doubters who placed cash bets that we wouldn't make it a year lost. Big time.

And Speaking of NieNie

2009-01-16T08:41:00.000-08:00

Go read. (By clicking on the blue words. They'll turn grey once you've gone there. And that's OK.)

And now the post you have all been waiting for...

2009-01-15T14:44:00.000-08:00

OK, so this may not have been the post you were waiting for, but it's one I've been looking forward to!
NieNie's book is ready to buy! Wahoo!

What? You have no idea who Nie-Nie is?

Where have you been? Really.

Go here.
Come back.

I'll wait for you.

You back? OK. Anyhow, I wanted to help. I wanted to make something and sell it to help Nie. Or buy something that someone else made to help Nie. But for heaven's sake, I am SO broke and I am SO not talented in the creation department. (Except for making kids which I excel at, but even then I need help.) Then Sue came up with this mighty fine fundraiser book idea!

And then she even chose one of my posts to include! (Don't hold it against the book. Some amazingly funny people made it in too: Finslippy, Eric D. Snider, Rocks in My Dryer, Big Mama, Sweetney, Daring Young Mom, TAMN, Heidi Ashworth, Crash Test Dummy, Shellie from Seriously Shellie, forty-three of us in all.)

Details. All proceeds go to benefit Stephanie and Christian Nielson. It's $19.60 for either paperback or electronic download. And you can

Buy It Here
(click the big bold words)

Go buy a copy. You'll laugh. A lot. I promise. What are you still doing here? Waiting for me to say it again? OK.

Buy It Here
(click the big bold words)

Now shoo! Go do something good.

Transcription the New Time-sucker

2009-01-12T19:26:00.000-08:00

So...apparently I say um, uh and pause twenty seconds between words on a regular basis. The good news is that it only took fifteen minutes to deliver my talk. The bad news is that I'm only half finished with the transcription. The other bad news is that this gem of mine needs a little cutting and polishing before it will be fit for your discerning eyes.

I always turned my papers in late in college too. As it turns out one of my ancestral family mottos is "SERO SED SERIO" which (I've been told) means "Late but in earnest." It's a motto I live by.

It went well.

2009-01-11T13:38:00.000-08:00

Now I am going to take a nap. I'll post the talk later. Much later. Like tomorrow. 'Night, Jon-boy!