Choose an identity

Every time I post a comment on blogger blogs I am faced with the following invitation:

Choose an identity

If only it were that easy. I’m pretty OK being me, but every now and then I wish I could try on some other identity–just like when I was a kid and I was playing paper dolls. (OK, you’re right, I was more likely to be playing rock paper scissors than paper dolls, but work with me here.)

Susie doesn’t want to be the doctor today. This time she’d like to play the attorney. You know, that sort of thing.

Other identities I have wanted to try on are as follows:

Dr. Rae Crane (in Medicine Man.) This was early in my “I just want to be freakin’ brilliant atsomething” stage. And somehow saving the jungle and the world side by side with Sean Connery didn’t sound half bad at the time.

Jamie Stemple Buckman. I’m pretty sure I’d be good in PR. Their apartment was great. I always wanted a dog just like Murray. I wish Carol Burnett was my mother. And Paul Reiser makes me laugh. (Oh, but for the record, I never would’ve named my daughter an acronym for “Mothers Always Bring Extra Love.” Can you say “Jump the Shark?”)

And although the answer is no, I do not want to be Helen Hunt, probably my all-time favorite in another life I would be this character would be Dr. Jo Harding in Twister (Hmmm. Apparently still having fantasies about kicking butt as a brilliant scientist). I have a thing for wild weather and–in another life–I think fighting tornadoes would be great fun. “Cows! We have cows!” Jo’s crew was crazy and I loved her Aunt Meg. (I would want to be her Aunt Meg, too, but only when I was much much older.)

To name a few.

So, enough about me. Now it’s your turn:

Choose an identity

Remembering

Yesterday at the movie theater and in the middle of a half-hour of previewing mostly drivel I was shocked out of my seat by the preview of Rescue Dawn.

It made me sick.

My uncle, my dad’s little brother, was shot down over Laos. We never saw him again. I was six at the time, but I vaguely remember getting the news. It was the day after Pearl Harbor Day—so I somehow always confuse the two. And it was the first time—one of only three times I ever remember—I watched my father cry. It is unsettling to see the one who wipes out your grief every time he wipes away your tears suffer a grief much too deep for your six-year-old mind to wrap itself around. (I thought about that moment when I saw the same confusion reflected back at me in the eyes of my son as he witnessed my reaction to what happened on September 11.)

As I grew up I remember being aware as my grandmother and several other family members served tirelessly for decades on behalf of MIAs and POWs. They just wanted to bring them home. It wasn’t until just a few years ago Uncle Bob’s remains were discovered in a cave in Laos—a place where at the time our government denied being—and the family got some closure as the remains were eventually brought home.

Needless to say, the images in the preview of this film struck a little too close to home.

I know that ours is only one of thousands of other stories (–this is the cousin after whom my father was named. His story has always been something special to me because I was named after my father–) that are likely to be forgotten unless we share them. So today I share with you the little bit I know. Because I was too young to remember. And then it was too long ago to remember. But I need to remember. And when I do I can easily skip past the politics and policies of that war or this war and just get down to what I can only imagine it must mean for mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters and most especially the children.

And so I would hope that no matter what our feelings are about the war (my own are too complex to articulate here) we at least take a moment today to be grateful. Freedom is never won handily nor without sacrifice. And that which we enjoy was and continues to be hard fought.

I add my prayers of thanks and for safety for the many men and women who have served and do this day serve in our military. I am mindful of their sacrifices as well as those of their families.

Thank you.

Remembering

Yesterday at the movie theater and in the middle of a half-hour of previewing mostly drivel I was shocked out of my seat by the preview of Rescue Dawn.

It made me sick.

My uncle, my dad’s little brother, was shot down over Laos. We never saw him again. I was six at the time, but I vaguely remember getting the news. It was the day after Pearl Harbor Day—so I somehow always confuse the two. And it was the first time—one of only three times I ever remember—I watched my father cry. It is unsettling to see the one who wipes out your grief every time he wipes away your tears suffer a grief much too deep for your six-year-old mind to wrap itself around. (I thought about that moment when I saw the same confusion reflected back at me in the eyes of my son as he witnessed my reaction to what happened on September 11.)

As I grew up I remember being aware as my grandmother and several other family members served tirelessly for decades on behalf of MIAs and POWs. They just wanted to bring them home. It wasn’t until just a few years ago Uncle Bob’s remains were discovered in a cave in Laos—a place where at the time our government denied being—and the family got some closure as the remains were eventually brought home.

Needless to say, the images in the preview of this film struck a little too close to home.

I know that ours is only one of thousands of other stories (–this is the cousin after whom my father was named. His story has always been something special to me because I was named after my father–) that are likely to be forgotten unless we share them. So today I share with you the little bit I know. Because I was too young to remember. And then it was too long ago to remember. But I need to remember. And when I do I can easily skip past the politics and policies of that war or this war and just get down to what I can only imagine it must mean for mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters and most especially the children.

And so I would hope that no matter what our feelings are about the war (my own are too complex to articulate here) we at least take a moment today to be grateful. Freedom is never won handily nor without sacrifice. And that which we enjoy was and continues to be hard fought.

I add my prayers of thanks and for safety for the many men and women who have served and do this day serve in our military. I am mindful of their sacrifices as well as those of their families.

Thank you.

The existentialism of housework

Existentialism
A philosophical movement embracing the view that the suffering individual must create meaning in an unknowable, chaotic, and seemingly empty universe.–Kathryn VanSpanckeren

Saturday I spent the entire day cleaning house. Not “playing house” but actually cleaning house. I even tackled my bedroom, which is sort of the dumping ground for everything in my house that does not have its own place. I chased the dust bunnies out of the closet (even though in my marriage vows I am released from any contractual obligation to dust anything), located some well-worn hard-wood floor and even made the bed.

It’s by no means immaculate. But I made good progress and although I was beat at the end of the day, it felt good.

My husband and I then attended what I like to refer to as “The Best Kept Secret,” the Saturday session of our Stake Conference (religious meeting). The first talk included some excellent advice about strengthening marriage (post forthcoming), but it wasn’t until the second speaker started outlining historical references regarding different cultures and people searching for sanctuary over millennia that I caught the theme, “Finding a place of refuge.” And it struck a chord.

One of the reasons I dropped everything else on Saturday and just dug in (and kept going long past when I was tired) was because I was driven by a need for a sanctuary, or place of refuge.

Our home is not a sanctuary. On most days I would describe it more like a busy hub. Which is fine. I like people. Action. Distraction. But the busier my hub becomes–the more people coming and going via that hub–the more I find I also need sanctuary.

And right now I’m in a mood in which I am determined to create it. It might seem impossible. The odds are certainly against me…so it may indeed be impossible. But I’ve got to try. Even if it’s just one room at a time.

In any case I think I’m starting to see a little shift in my paradigm. You are all well aware that there are other things I’d rather be doing than housework. But perhaps it is in part because I see it as just that–empty futile “house” “work.” I asked myself, what if I looked at my efforts instead as a form of art?

“I’m creating a sanctuary,” I said to myself out loud while sitting out on the big cushy couch in the foyer. Suddenly I felt inspired and more motivated. And I began to see myself not as a mere slave to the chaos of a split-entry structure but rather as a woman wielding the power of her own free will, finding meaning in the mayhem as the desiginated builder, creator and discoverer of that place of refuge.

It comes down to this:

A). Quasimoto desperately and pathetically screaming “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”

B). Rosie (my former avatar) the Riveter flexing her Gloveable-clad (magical powers, I kid you not) arm stating, “We can do it!” (”Hmmm. Should I go with the polka-dots or the cherries today?” “Perhaps madame would prefer to do it in leopard skin?”)

Thanks Monty, I’m going with door number 2.

Week in review (via Good Mommy/Bad Mommy

I just noticed a good mommy being too hard on herself, so I decided it was time to get real about the kind of mommy I was this past week:

Signs I have been a bad Mommy this week:

I just noticed a plate from Sunday dinner at the bottom of the stack of dishes I'm finally getting a chance to finish up.

There are also, on my table, paper bags and disposable cups from both Wendy's and McDonald's. Not only that: After I picked up McDonald's for the two little ones last night Melody and I got take-out salads and hazelnut 12-grain bread from Kneaders and ate them ourselves.

I did not have a night home the entire past week. Until last night. When I finally picked up my kids at nine and took them over to Melody's to eat on her front lawn. We got home home at quarter to ten.

My children have no clean clothes. (Except for the boys, who do their own laundry. The fact that they do their own laundry should go under the good mommy category.)

There have been times this week when I didn't know where my children were. I had a good idea what friends they were with and of course they were fine, but I honestly didn't know.


Signs I have been a good Mommy this week:

When my daughter got mad at me (because I am trying to teach her she cannot take other people's things--her brother's longboard--without asking) and ran away to _________ again I followed her and brought her home. Even though that was the hard thing to do and I often think she'd be better off with someone else anyway (just not, necessarily, anybody else).

When my daughter screamed at me that she hadn't left her flip-flops at a friend's house because she hasn't done that for 4 billion years and then not five minutes later asked me to drive her to her friend's house so she could get her flip-flops I did not slap her. In fact I didn't even want to slap her. Without yelling myself I calmly told her she owed me a HUGE apology and said that whether or not she chose to give it she still knew she was out of line and being completely unfair. And I actually meant it when I told her I loved her as she got out of the car when I dropped her off at school after she had made us both late.

I managed to attend two more concerts on the the third week in the first half of May in which my presence was required at Provo High on consecutive nights. And I enjoyed them without thinking too much about Sunday's dishes still on the table. I also managed to make it to as many softball games each week and cheer on a daughter who loathes me. (Not to mention sit through some patheticly sorry softball).

I paid $25 of my own money to protect my son from buying a car that although it appeared to be a sweet deal would really have been more of a liability than an asset. I am still trying to believe him when he told me he wasn't disappointed.

It's 9:30 Saturday morning and although I have been invited to a Pampered Chef party I'd like to attend (and after which I really wanted to go visit b.) I am going to stay home and try to put some of the pieces of my crazy busy life back together. Not so much for me, but for my kids who deserve a little sanity as they enter the last week of school and get ready for "summer vacation." (Even though a good part of the insanity around here is a direct result of my trying to be everywhere and everything for them.)

I have a good heart

I just got the results from a rather extensive test on my heart last week and they were good. “Your heart is good.” was the definitive report.

Sigh. Huge sigh of relief actually. Long story short: I have had a pain in my chest from time to time and it has gone undiagnosed for years. My no-nonsense doctor ordered what I thought would be a regular stress test and I set up an appointment thinking I was just going to get an EKG and a free workout on the treadmill.

A couple of days before my appointment I read the fine print. I wasn’t having just your ordinary stress test, but rather a thallium a.k.a. nuclear stress test (better known in Texas as the nu-cu-lar stress test). Essentially they were going to hook me up with an IV and inject radioactive substances into my bloodstream and take lots of pretty pictures of me at work and at play.

I was nervous about the radioactive part of the equation–I don’t even like x-rays–but went along for the ride anyway. It was mostly non-eventful, but being the only patient at the cardiology center way under-qualified to be a member of AARP amused me. And because I was possibly one of the few patients actually enthusiastic about taking on the treadmill I amused the nurses and techs.

As I was lying perfectly still while a robotic armed camera worked its way around my chest I happened to glance at the name badge of the nurse and I began to have second thoughts. Her official title was “nuclear tech.” And the imaging rooms were referred to as “nuclear camera I” and “nuclear camera II.” It all felt a little too space age to me, but then we are well into the space age and the experience did end up being a rather good introduction to the exciting world of nuclear medicine. Who knew?

In any case, I survived and am rather proud of myself I didn’t lose any sleep while awaiting my results. Those came today and the word is that I am good to go. On. With my life. And I now pledge to make more of an effort to be good to the heart that has been so good to me.

Let her keep taking a licking and keep on ticking.

All in a day's work

From the newly turned 16-year-old:

Q. Hey Mom. Will you read Blondie and tell me if it’s dirty or if I just don’t get it?

A. You just don’t get it. Should I somehow be concerned you understood the double entendre that wasn’t at all intended but didn’t at all get the reference to golf?

Note to self: Sign that kid up for golf lessons. PDQ.

Seven-year-old son is sitting on my lap as I’m typing an e-mail to Melody. I make some reference to my middle age. K~ pops up with this, “Mom, you are only in your 40s. Middle age is in the 50s.”

Happy Mother’s Day to me!

Almost 12-year-old daughter has seen fit to be sweet this weekend. Although her latest saying besides calling everyone “Peter Pettigrew” is “You have a big bum.”

As if I need anyone to tell me that. Love you too, hon. But thanks for staying up the other night and watching “Pride and Prejudice” with me (not the A&E one). I enjoyed spending chick flick Friday with you. And I hope you heard loud and clear all the times I said, “See, could be worse for you.” Each time that horrible mother humiliated poor Elizabeth Bennett. Indeed.

Oldest son who is not prone to affection hugs me at least five times yesterday and tells me he loves me. He wishes me “Happy Mother’s Day!”

No one helps with the dishes. But I’m not too disappointed. I’m making it a good day.

Three missionaries speak in church. One returning and two leaving (on Wednesday). I am listening to the second boy speak his about mother, who also happens to be a friend of mine, and it hits me. Hard. In my heart and in the stomach. My son will leave long before either of those boys come home. I imagine–because I do these things to myself–having to say good-bye. Return home to a quieter house. Walk past an empty bedroom. Sit across from an empty chair. I anticipate longing to hear his laugh. See his face. Feel his infrequent yet always appreciated hugs. Miss even his habitual “Mom. Get me some food.”

I think I’m going to throw up.

The interview, part I

My new jet-setting friend Carina wrote a fabulous post for “The Interview” that’s going around. I asked her to send me a few questions, knowing that hers would be interesting. And, as I suspected, she did not disappoint. Since she chose a couple of topics I found rather stimulating, I’m going to post in parts.

Here’s question #1.

Q. You went back to work after your youngest was in school. Was it a hard decision or were you looking forward to it?

A. After watching my mother unexpectedly find herself single parent and breadwinner for six kids, I always knew I would go back to work. But when my baby went to first grade I initially thought I’d take a year to put my house in order, get some much-needed painting done, etc. My husband and I had already talked about it and decided it would be fine to wait. And I was good with that.

Then one day I was flipping through the want ads of the local newspaper–not at all something I was in the habit of doing–and I saw this temp job for a Google searcher. Something told me I should apply, so I did. At one point during training something happened that made me question whether or not I wanted to work for this company and I actually found myself trying to quit. And then something very strongly told me not to quit. Within five months the temp job turned permanent and I made supervisor. Here I am a year and a half later and the only regrets I have are not being able to juggle my schedule well enough to volunteer more and get to some of my quilting projects.

The hard part about going back to work was two-fold. One, I had a 17-year gap on my resume. I went to fill out my application and where they request the address of the former employer how exactly do you say, “It no longer exists. They razed the building and built a Wal-Mart built over it.” And when they ask if they can contact your former supervisor is it in bad form to report, “He died in ‘02.”

Two, let me tell you: there was quite a learning curve. Think about stepping out of the work force just as Word Perfect is making it big and stepping back in when Google is taking over the world, everyone has a PC and many people own their own laptops, cell phones, and iPods. And actually know how to operate them. I had been mostly left out of a rather big loop and it took me a bit to catch up. Now one of my co-supervisors who is essentially brilliant in IT tells me I know just enough to be dangerous.

The best part of going back to work is the discovery that I do have it in myself to do this. One of the things I loved about being home was having discretionary time. Not free time, but at least the ability to choose what I would do when. I have had odd freelance jobs in the past where I actually found myself resenting having to make the time to work. Not actually doing the work, but I guess you could say I had commitment issues. But I will be honest and tell you, I like being at work. I find the work–on most days anyway–stimulating and interesting. I enjoy the new friends I have made at work. There are days when I still say to myself, “Wow! People come to me with problems and I solve them. I am respected, liked and appreciated and there is usually someone here who will laugh at my jokes. And I get paid for this?” (Lest you think I am waxing too Pollyanna, I will also tell you I still deal with guilt and ambivalence every day, along with a few snarky comments now and then from women whose business it is not, but who choose to sit in judgment of my working outside the home anyway.)

I work more than is expected of me and that gives me a real sense of accomplishment. I also find it reassuring to know that if, like my mother, I ended up out of necessity having to support my family, I could do it. (But I wouldn’t ever want to.)

(Stay tuned as I ponder a perplexing parenting problem in Part II.)

The interview, part II

Q. You parent some really strong and different personalities, what is one thing you’ve learned about the process that you could share?
A. Interesting question to answer given I’m at a time in my parenting in which I am coming to question myself more deeply than ever before. Essentially I have spent my entire life trying not to be what I didn’t love about my own parents’ parenting. So imagine how it must feel almost 18 years out when I start to hear the thoughts and feelings I had as a child but didn’t dare say out loud echoed back to me in the words and perspective of my pre-teen daughter. Have I failed? I don’t know. Was I wrong? I don’t know. Will the children of parents working so hard to be the antithesis of their parents end up being just like their grandparents? Sometimes I wonder.

Here is what I do know. There is no manual, no handbook, nothing better than inspiration. Sometimes there’s just a point when you have to turn it all over to God and get out of the way and let those kids become who they are supposed to b–loving them the whole way through. I can say this because it’s hard for me to swallow my pride and eliminate the chatter around me long enough to listen for that inspiration. I have to work at it. But when I do, it works and good things happen.

Q. Who is your favorite artist and why?
A. That is a tough one. Art is something that both inspires and intimidates me. I’m not an expert but I love the work of Auguste Rodin. Mostly because while I was in college I read a biography about him (looking back it was probably more like historical fiction) that moved me to tears. So then of course his sculptures moved me to tears.

Much later I tried to locate the book because I wanted to feel it all over again, but I was unsuccessful. I wonder if art is like that too. It speaks to you in a certain way at a certain time in your life and it might never move you in the same way ever again. But then again, maybe it will.

Q. You’re a quilter. How did you get started and what is it about quilting that you really love?
A. My friend and I took a quilt class through community ed after my third child was born. I felt the need to accomplish something–anything. What I love about it is when you’re a mother almost everything you do gets undone in mere minutes. Except quilts. Quilting is a way to create, express myself and accomplish something that won’t get undone in a day.

Q. Delta Airlines calls you and says you’ve got four free open-ended tickets to anywhere. Where are you going, who is going with you, and what will you be up to?
A. Do you remember when I fell in love with Finland? I will leave for Helsinki in April. I think I’ll take my whole family. (Which means I will have to pay for two extra tickets.) I will live there for six months using public transportation, riding an old bike with a basket on the front and walking in a good pair of shoes. I’ll buy fresh food each day at market and cook dinner every night. I will try to visit at least a thousand of the 80,000 lakes. I will shop at Marimekko and Iitalla. And I will have pretty blue bottles and bright geraniums in my windows. Finland is just a hop, skip and a jump away from all the other European countries I want to visit, so I might never come back.

I’ll send you a postcard.

Sixteen Candles

HAPPY BIRTHDAY! today to my second child, Zack.
Z~ was born the first year my husband started teaching. We had no money. Our maternity insurance kicked in at midnight on April 30 and my water broke at 1a.m. I was happy and relieved to deliver that bundle of joy because he weighed a whopping 10 lb. 5 oz.

Z~ is the kind of kid who is easy to be around. Smarter than most people I know. A peacemaker. A wicked fun sense of humor. Easy going. A social animal. Talented. Sweet.

Just before July 4 of the year he was going into 8th grade he decided it would be cool to play the sax. So he taught himself. By the time the school year started he was good enough to make the jazz band at Dixon. He has since learned to play the clarinet because he knew the band leader needed another clarinet and he just finished out the season at Utah Valley Youth Symphony on the clarinet. He will play the tenor sax in PHS’s jazz band next year. He just tried out for the drum line with the marching band and is also learning to play the guitar.

If you like to play Cranium just make sure Z~ and I are not on the same team unless we are on your team. I think our minds twist the same way and we know what the other is thinking without more than a word or two.

Z~ loves animals and has a bearded dragon named Buddy. Yesterday in Zoology he found a partially digested frog in the snake he was dissecting and those kind of things make Z~ happy. Oh, that and hurling his body down Provo Canyon on a long board. Half of me wants to discourage such behavior. The other half of me wants to say, “Fly, be free!”

My favorite photo of Z~ is on the coldest day ever in Provo–I think it was -5 or something–and he and his friend went kayaking down the Provo River. There were layers of ice on their dry suits. He had a hacking cough for weeks after. But I have never seen a bigger grin on that kid’s face. And that’s what it’s all about.

One of my favorite stories about Z~ involves this girl in our congregation whom Z~ home teaches. He was playing with the jazz band at the Fall Fling and she was there with a date and he went up to her date and told him he’d better treat her right or he would have to deal with Z~.

The other day I was ordering a sandwhich at Gandolfo’s. It was my first time there and I was telling the woman who works there it had come highly recommended by my son. She asked my son’s name and I told her and she smiled and said she knew him. She wanted me to know he is the most polite boy. And he is. He is so nice that he gets a little embarrassed when I do what he calls my “assertive thing.” Yet when needed he will call on me to do that thing I do on his behalf. Disclaimer: I am nice when I do my assertive thing; he just doesn’t like to watch. Most times he just likes to roll with the tide and not make any waves.

He is a good kid and fun to be around. (He’s also the only one in the family who will watch a chick flick with his mom, but don’t let that get around.)

Z~ is savvy to a world from which I wish I could have better protected him, but maybe being more aware will help him learn to protect himself. He loves to drive and lately we have been driving around with the windows down singing Regina Spektor. On the way to school this morning he was flipping through the songs looking for his favorite. At the intro to one I asked him if that was the one about drugs and he looked at me so matter of fact and said, “They’re all about drugs.” (He may be right, but it’s still my new favorite.) In any case, he will be getting his drivers license in just two weeks so stay off the sidewalks!

Oh and I love that he sent a reminder to himself on his cell phone that today is his birthday.

Happy Birthday Z~! I’m so glad you were born!