A Gayle Force

Return

2011-05-19T20:22:00.000-07:00

I graduated in April. It felt glorious for about three days and then I had two of the least productive weeks of my entire life. And depressing. It was a rather nasty cycle because I truly could not figure out what was going on. I was done and should be happy. I had a little time to be a mom and that should be even happier. But I sat and looked at my house that seemed to be barely holding together at the seams and didn't know where to start. I was happy my laptop was sitting unused in its bag, but at the same time, I had an insatiable urge to pull it out and start researching something, outlining something, writing something. I should have slept well, but nights were interrupted with miniature panic attacks--I was sure I had forgotten to do something. But the missed task always eluded me.

Now I am working as a clerk for a firm, working to help a professor rewrite his casebook, and struggling to prepare for the bar (wow is that ever going to be miserable) and suddenly all is right with the world again. I am making bowls of cereal for dinner and the kids are missing homework assignments but I feel much better. Are you catching the problem here? I have been conditioned to not enjoy life unless it is too overwhelming, too much to get done. Where has my ability to enjoy gone, I wonder? How was it so quickly replaced with the ball of nerves that has taken its place. Maybe it is just my anxiety over still not having a job. That's possible. Because we have five little girls to feed and clothe and a house payment. And in a few short months I will have a good-sized loan payment to make. So, I am working on relaxing, breathing, and trusting God that He will show a way. And trying (unsuccessfully) to be patient.

This is part of my self-imposed therapy. I will write my blog again. I will record the things that my girls are doing and saying before it all disappears and I have nothing left but home movies that are almost too painful to watch.

Warning: I've done this with journals--made a quasi commitment--and it never really has worked. We will see...

To everything . . .

2010-06-15T00:44:00.000-07:00

Here are some changes I've noticed lately. I am not sure how I feel about any or all of them.

1. I have changed my address. That was a biggie and has wrecked absolute havoc in our lives. For now. I think this one is good. Right now is it just overwhelming and hard.

2. My daughters are changing--a lot--and really fast. Maren is taller than I am and Hollis is close on her heels. They are musicians and swimmers and readers and writers. It is all great, but just doesn't seem right. I live in the moment, but why does it seem like Maren should still be a three foot tall tow-headed toddler with a ready giggle and sparkling blue eyes? I can't even go further there because it is too too painful. Almost unbearable.

3. I changed my mind about locks of hair. I never kept them when the older kids got hair cuts--I mean it seemed pretty dumb. Who wants old pieces of hair all over the place--yuck. But Maeve just got her first haircut (yep--over three years and no haircut). The gal said, "Do you want to keep some?" I looked at her quizzically and said, "No. . . Yes. Yes I do, please." I then got sick to my stomach as she was cutting Maeve's hair and couldn't watch. What was up with that? Sick to my stomach?! It is a haircut for crying in a bucket!

4. I changed my mind about professional painters. They are AWESOME. Painting, much like lawyering, is something you just shouldn't do on your own. Hire the professionals and let them do the work for you. Wowee.

Then there are things that my fickle mind just cannot sort out, no matter how hard it tries.

1. What shall I do about potty-training my three-year-old? I don't really know. I know the others eventually were potty-trained (some more quickly than others) but I can't quite seem to figure out how. And part of me doesn't care. (Yikes.) Because, though the diaper thing is gross, she is my baby. I can't have haircuts and say farewell forever to diapers all in the same week. Come on. That is asking too much.

2. What shall I do about graduating in April? That means I have to figure out a job and I am at a complete (almost) loss. I know, it seems that lawyering would be the thing to do, but you haven't tried lawyering. You don't know the misery that is the work of first year associates. I have had two summers of it and hated almost every minute. What I want is something that lets me be a mom again. I mean I am a mom, but not the same mom I was two years ago--see there's that change thing again.

3. I have a birthday coming up this week and I honest to goodness cannot ever remember how old I am. Honest. It takes me subtracting my birth year from 2010 to get it figured out. I think I'm 36, then I get confused and I'm just 35, or is it 37 because I'm suddenly too old for more babies or am I already creeping up on 38? I'm pretty sure it ain't 34--been there and done that . . . I think . . .

Average Perfection

2010-05-08T01:15:00.000-07:00

My daughter is failing Algebra.
Ok, ok. She isn't getting an A.
In fact, her three quarters of As are turning to a C.
But I'm a law student and to me that is failing.
What sick and wrong thing has happened in my little brain to make that the case, I'm not entirely sure. But if she doesn't get it in gear, she can't take Geometry in 8th grade and then take the ACT in 9th grade.
See what I mean? A little sick.

To add to the sickness, I do have an excuse for her. She is bored to tears and just doesn't like to do her homework. But she is smart. Oh boy, is she ever smart. 100% on her quizzes and tests. 100%, baby.

I had a law school acquaintance tell me once that he is not competitive. He would never wish for anyone to do badly. He just really hopes he does better than everyone else. Hmmm.

I think we are in a difficult era for more reasons that just pornography and the internet. We are in the most competitive era ever. It makes me pause to wonder what then happens to charity. What then happens to compassion.

Around the block is the stay-at-home mom with her award winning home business or her award-winning blog or her blog being turned into a book or five kids who are all already accepted into Harvard.

Down the street is the mom with degrees from Stanford and Yale. She works just 10 hours a week, makes a fabulous income, and serves up homemade cookies with organic milk when her kids get home from school.

We look at each other and compare and criticize and compete.

I wonder when we stopped sharing our sorrows as well as our joys.

I wonder when we stopped sharing our weaknesses as well as our strengths.

In wonder when we stopped sharing our humanity as well as our celestiality.

The up-and-comers seem to have it extra hard. Education. Motherhood. Career. Uniquely and beatifully decorated home. Beautifully decorated children. Cleanliness, orderliness, perfection.

Perfection that we know is unattainable, yet we are so willing to believe that it exists in almost every life but our own. Something must not be right with us because no one else seems to have the challenges and weaknesses we do.

Perhaps some look for the gaps. But the gaps hardly ever show. In other people, that is. I see my gaps clearly and gaping all around me. The gap betwen the temple and my lived-in home. The gap between the mother I want to be and the mother I am. The gap between what I want to do and what I am supposed to do.

We have no permission to be average. Even people who read this and think, "Oh, I am average, boy am I average" either don't show it or really are not average. Probably the latter. Ever noticed how easy it is to see the divinity in others? Besides, average isn't acceptable, is it? We covet the top spots in the class. We persist in pursuing a dream we aren't even sure we want. And in the process we miss the real moments. The laboratory moments that show our humanity and perfect our eternity.

We are truly in an era when all the world is a stage and the men and women are all striving desperately to be players-unique players, strong players, beautiful players, talented player.

Anything but an average player.

Here's to being more average. And being willing to let the gaps show.

Endurance

2010-03-29T20:49:00.000-07:00

I am running out of it.

I stayed home with sick kids last Thursday and today and I pretended I was a mom and not a law student.

It was delightful.

We did laundry.

We cleaned the house.

We did dishes.

We mopped the floor.

We vacuumed.

We got the garden ready to plant.

I ignored the homework sitting and staring at me in the corner of the room.

It was a mini vacation.

I loved it.

My children's book

2010-01-28T22:43:00.001-08:00

I have a children's book that I have written.

But it isn't published.

I need an artist.

I need a publisher.

I need an agent.

I need a lawyer.

Will someone who knows tell me what to do?

Because it is a good book.

Not that I'm prejudiced or anything.

I can't taste anything . . .

2010-01-07T18:07:00.000-08:00

We're sick at my house. Dean has pneumonia and I have something nasty. I was fighting through it until my fever soared and my cough was so bad it was giving me stomach cramps. So, I had to stay home from my second day at Holland and Hart and try to do some work.

And an interesting thing happened.

I couldn't taste anything.

Nothing.

Nada.

I can feel texture, I can tell is something is bitter or sweet or salty.

But I can't taste.

Eating has been very unenjoyable today. I had an orange at breakfast--it was totally gross. Really. I could barely stomach it.

Everyone else raved about how sweet and delicious they were.

I ate a piece of fudge Hollis made.

It felt rich and creamy.

It was so sweet it practically burned my sweet receptors on my tongue.

But I could not taste anything. Nothing.

Tonight I made sweet and sour sauce for some pork my mom had cooked. I couldn't smell while I was cooking, but the vinegar still made my eyes water. That was a challenge--I didn't realized how much I rely on my sniffer to cook.

Then I couldn't taste a thing. All that effort for yummy sweet and sour and I couldn't enjoy it.

So, I've been hungry today, but I almost don't want to eat because it is practically a chore. I need food to live, but, golly, it was no fun.

I realized while I was shivering in my bed, waiting for meds to lower my fever, and trying to go to sleep that Dean and the girls are the flavor in my life. They make the things I need to do something I actually enjoy doing.

The sky is falling

2010-01-01T23:49:00.000-08:00

Last night I dreamed that it was the second coming.

I've had these dreams before. Usually there is war and hunger and often an apple in the dream. Strange that it is always an apple. Perhaps my subconscious is linking the beginning of mortality with the end of it. I digress . . .

This time it was calm. There was a sort of tear (as in rip, not water falling from the eyes) in the sky and a temple was slowly descending out of the sky. No one was quite sure what was going on. There was speculation that it was it a Hollywood special effect stunt.

Then, my mother in law came floating down from heaven on a block of ice. (No, she is not dead in real life.) She had an extra block of ice and wanted Hollis to float back up with her to heaven. Hollis insisted that she did not want to die, but mother-in-law assured us that dying was unnecessary.

I asked if this was indeed the second coming. Mother-in-law assured me it was.

I asked if Hollis would be twinkled. Mother-in-law assured me she would not.

Apparently Hollis was a child who would be raised in the millennium. Mother-in-law just wanted Hollis to see the marvelous goings on in celestial realms.

Of course I let her go.

I felt such astonishment and joy to know that I was alive and the second coming was happening. This was in stark contrast to previous second coming dreams where I have felt varying levels of panic, fear, and worry.

Where I am in a war zone fighting to find my children and my husband.

Where I am scrounging for food because our year supply isn't even a week supply.

(That's usually where the apple enters. There's only one. It might be partially rotten. Not sufficient to feed my seven-member family.)

No, this time I was perfectly calm. And joyous. Extremely joyous.

I did the only thing I thought I could do and I went to the temple. One that was already on the ground. My mom came along.

We watched as the heaven temple slowly lowered to a resting spot on the ground. Mom was disappointed because it landed on some flowers that she liked.

We entered the temple and Peter Jennings was at the recommend desk.

I whispered, "Do you know what is going on outside? It is the second coming."

Peter Jennings answered, "Yes, we are following it very carefully. Enjoy your time in the temple Sister Belnap."

And so I went to change.

I woke up with a profound feeling of peace. And excitement. And expectation.

Lovely.

Traditions

2010-01-01T13:49:00.000-08:00

We have too many traditions that center around food. I know that. I acknowledge it. I have no immediate plans to change it.

One tradition is egg nog. It is so good. But only if you make it from scratch. The store bought stuff is disgusting. We haven't had egg nog for sometime. Why? Because it is made with raw eggs and our recipe doesn't cook them. Because if you cook them then you have thinned custard. Disgusting.

I used to make it with pasteurized eggs I would buy at Target. Then Target quit carrying them and so I quit making egg nog.

Until last night.

We threw caution to the wind and made old-fashioned egg nog with raw eggs that had not been pasteurized. It felt risky. Like an extreme sport maybe. And guess what happened . . .

Nothing.

That's right, nothing.

No illness, no sickness, no diarrhea, nothing.

So, here's how to do it if you want to join in the egg nog roulette and take your chances with the ever-threatening salmonella.

Separate 2 eggs.

Beat egg whites with 3 T sugar until fluffy (soft peaks)

In a separate bowl, beat yolks with 1/3 cup sugar till lovely and thick.

Add 1/4t. salt and 1t. vanilla to the yolks.

Add 1 qt. milk to the yolk mixture and mix well.

Add the egg white mixture and stir.

Grate fresh nutmeg over the top.

Yum.

Just for good measure, here's another yummy New Year's traditional food. Onion dip. Not the kind from the box and a pint of sour, cream. No, this is from scratch (recipe by Alton Brown) and is so much better than that other kind.

Mix 1 1/2 c. sour cream, 3/4 cup mayo (do not substitute Miracle Whip--ugh), 1/4 t. garlic powder, 1/4 t. pepper, 1/2 t. salt.

Set aside.

Cook 1 1/2 c. diced onions (any variety--I like reds) sprinkled with 1/4 t. salt in 2 T. oil over medium heat stirring occasionally until onions caramelize nicely. It will take twenty minutes or so. Don't burn them.

Let onions cool a bit.

Stir onions into sour cream mixture and the refrigerate. Stir before serving.

This is good with chips, crackers, on sandwiches in place of mayo or just about any way you can think to eat it. Enjoy.

Morning . . .

2010-01-01T13:47:00.000-08:00

This morning Hattie was laying next to me in bed. She came down crying sometime in the night. She put her hands on my face and lined my nose up with hers.

"This way I can see you."

"You're my sweetheart, did you know?"

"You're my momheart."

The most important thing

2009-12-20T20:28:00.000-08:00

Tonight, Dean gave the girls his Sunday-before-Christmas-gift. They were snow globes, with little sparkling nativities inside. I smiled as I watched him explain to the girls that they could open this one present early because it was something to help them remember what Christmas was all about.

They tore open the pretty paper, discarded the bows and then oohed and ahhed coming to show me the tiny details that made their snow globe unique and important.

Hattie showed me the blue sparkles on Mary's robes and then turned to find a home for her new treasure and said, "I just love Jesus. He is just the most important thing EVER!"

Ditto.

Christmas is coming . . .

2009-12-20T16:11:00.000-08:00

People keep asking if I am ready for Christmas.

A) What does that mean -- ready for Christmas?

Does it mean, "do you have your gifts purchased and under the tree?"

Does it mean, "are you ready to be done with the break and everyone back in school?"

Sometimes, it feels like everyone is getting ready for a big production and I've been left out.

B) I am never ready for Christmas

I don't have the gifts ready -- I still need stocking stuffers.

I don't want the break to end -- I'm just getting used to playing mom again.

I don't want to stumble through the whole thing wondering if I've missed my cue.

This year is particularly not so fun as I have a couple of papers to write. One on same sex marriage and one on international defamation of religion statutes. Exciting stuff, I know.

The three days I took off between my final final last Wednesday and today have been fun. I took the kids in the car. All together. We went places. We ran errands. We shopped. We ate lunch. We came home. We did laundry.

It was blissfully normal. I miss it.

Tomorrow I'll spend twelve hours writing. Tuesday, will be the same. Wednesday, the same. All for Thursday and Friday when I have sworn that the writing can wait so that I can hold my kids and look at them and listen to them and smell them and feel them and watch another year of our lives close.

No, I'm not ready for Christmas -- I never am. But I sure love it when it comes. And I sure hate when it is over.

I wish . . .

2009-12-14T22:55:00.001-08:00

Today, Mandy said:

I wish we could go back in time to when Maren was only eleven.

Then Maeve could be a baby.

Acshully, I wish we could just go back in time until before you ever started law school

Then we could stop you from going and we could all be at home and
you could be our mommy again.

New computer for Christmas, anyone?

2009-12-14T21:23:00.001-08:00

Have you heard about the New HP TouchSmart 600? It looks awesome and you could win one for Christmas.

Go here to read about it.

Go here, here, here, here, and here to enter.

Good luck!

Never Enough . . .

2009-12-14T19:44:00.000-08:00

I had things all worked out to send the kids and Dean to the in-laws for Thanksgiving and I was going to stay home, locked in the law library to study for finals and get my papers written. It was a perfect plan.

But . . .

. . . as the time for departure approached, my guilt level increased and the thought of spending Thanksgiving in a dark room with my books and computer were perhaps more than I could take.

Add to that the persuasive essay that Hollis wrote with three good points:

1. If I came Grandma would have help making dinner and thereby avid probable death trying to cook dinner for my enormous (I see a double meaning in that) family,

2. If I came the trip would be more fun, and

3. If I came Maren would be forced to sit next to Hollis in the slightly squashed bask seat of the van (yes—to Hollis that was a plus – she LOVES her big sister).

I quickly pointed out to Hollis that her essay was excellent, but in order to be truly persuasive, she would have to provide responses to my counter arguments.

She asked what my counter arguments were, to which I responded:

"If I go to Mesquite for Thanksgiving . . .

I will not be able to study and will then fail my classes . . .

and then I will have to take extra years to finish . . .

thereby prolonging your apparently excruciating pain at being left motherless (or nearly so) for the time I am in school."

She had no response. I thought I was safe.

But Dean started in. Bless his sweet heart, he never asks me to do anything. Except get him toilet paper. And he started sneaking in little, “Do you think you might be able to come?” quickly followed by, “I mean it is totally OK for you to stay. No, you’d better stay and get your papers done. Forget it. Forget that I said anything. You can stay. No problem.”

Let’s be clear, of course I could stay, I am an agent unto myself after all.

Then I thought that there was a slight chance they would all be in a car wreck and die and how would I feel then?

Then—horrors of horrors—I realized that if certain other law students (who shall remain nameless) had told me that they were skipping out on Thanksgiving with their family basically to have a shot at a better GPA, I would be horrified and give them a fair tongue-lashing in my own prideful and self-righteous kind of way about priorities and perspective and what is really important in life.

Needless to say, I found myself sequestered in a bedroom in 70 degree Mesquite typing away.

Interrupted by Hattie, “Mom, you have to come see the beautiful new decorations I made for Grandma.”

Okay.

Interrupted by Maeve, “Mom, color Maeve? Mom, color Maeve?”

Okay.

Interrupted by Maren, “Mom, where’s my Peanuts music?”

Let’s see . . .

Knock . . . knock . . . knock . . .

Interrupted by Hollis, “Um, Mom, sorry to bother you, because I know you are really really super busy with school and stuff and I really want you to get your paper done, so I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m really glad you came. Do you need some water or something?”

OK –is she too much or what? So sweet.

Interrupted by Mandy, “Mom, it is not much of a vacation when you have to work so hard at school. I mean, I find myself having fun and then I forget that you are even here.”

Hmmm . . .

“Then I remember that you are here and then I’m extra sad because you are working and not having fun with me. So it is not much of a vacation. Do you think you could come and eat dinner because I keep imagining Grandma’s table and no one there eating and that is sad, I think. And probably Grandma will feel bad.”

Okay.

And so defamation is set aside until the kids are abed and I can work into the wee hours trying to ensure that I keep the promise that this would be a limited three year engagement. . .

And I’m still glad I came.

Dei Gratia

2009-12-01T21:58:00.000-08:00

Dei Gratia and the equivalent translations into other languages has most commonly been known as an introductory phrase for monarchs indicating the divine role or divine gift of authority they enjoyed. For example, "Elizabeth II, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith..." so on and so forth. All those titles now seemingly moot as the true power of the monarchy in most countries has been passed in some degree to the people.

Here's part of what I think about when I think of the phrase.
"Grace: A word that occurs frequently in the New Testament, especially in the writings of Paul. The main idea of the word is divine means of help or strength, given through the bounteous mercy and love of Jesus Christ."

I've found most of us have some difficulty setting aside the time we want to spend studying scriptures, words or prophets, and pondering what we can do to be more effective instruments in the Lord's hands.

Here's my first thought. "It is by grace that we are saved, after all that we can do" (2 Ne. 25:23).

What if we rewrote that just a bit using the definition of grace from above. It is by the divine means of help or strength, given through the bounteous mercy and love of Jesus Christ that we are saved, after all that we can do.

For me, coming back to school has given the Lord ample opportunity to demonstrate the power of this principle in my life. I can't do it all, and the Lord mercifully makes up for where I fall short. Through His grace I am able to so as well as I need to to serve as His instrument doing His will.

On a broader level, it is a great reminder that I cannot save myself. I can't be good enough, I can't be smart enough, I can't be perfect enough. Ever. There is no way I can do enough to save myself. None of us can. It is by grace...the divine means of help and strength that come to us through the Atonement that any of us can be saved.

I am immensely grateful for that principle in my life. I'm am grateful to know that it is important for me to do all I can, but ultimately, the Savior's unspeakable gift will make up for the many ways I fall short and make it possible for me to be saved in His Kingdom.

Waxing Sentimental...

2009-03-10T23:38:00.000-07:00

I am a mountain girl.

I belong in the mountains. It is in my blood.

When I came to Utah, I scoffed at what people glibly termed “mountains.”

I knew mountains.

License plates proclaimed, “Greatest snow on earth,”

...but I knew better.

Utahans could just stay under their happy little delusion of grandeur. I was just here for an undergraduate education and then I’d go home to the colorful, cool, Colorado Rockies.

That was seventeen years ago.

I still can’t claim Utah as home. I actually refuse to claim that I am from here, even though I have lived here longer than I lived at home with my parents. This is not because Utah is seriously lacking in any given way, but simply because I belong to Colorado. I love being sunburned, snow-burned, and wind-burned.

I love skiing in the winter,

hiking in the summer,

and bike-riding in the fall.

I love long winters, short summers, and heavenly autumns and springs.

I love the blue spruce, rocky mountain columbine, and lark bunting.

I love fresh spring days hiking by clear cool mountain creeks,

crisp winter mornings riding up the lift

in the quiet serenity created by a new blanket of shimmering snow,

and cool autumn afternoons in the golden sunlight

streaming through the changing colors of the quaking aspen leaves overhead.

I belong to Colorado.

My mother was born in Oklahoma. As a young girl, she traveled to a small cabin in Crested Butte every summer. The only happy memories she has from her difficult childhood are set in that small house in that small Colorado town. Somehow, my memories of and connections to Colorado stretch back to those days.

I see fuzzy images of my grandmother wearing short pants with a button-up shirt and a scarf tied around her head. She’s laughing with friends and lighting charcoal to cook dinner.

I see grainy pictures of my grandfather walking and talking with men I don’t know. He stands upright and strong against the vibrant sky.

I see bright snapshots of my mother, young and smiling. She looks hopeful for her future but lives most fully and happily in that rare moment of pure contentment. The clean mountain air somehow cleansed and invigorated her.

My roots in Colorado started then—decades before I was born.

None of us lives in Colorado anymore. Three moved to Utah, one to Chicago, and one to Washington—but our roots run deep. Like the aspens, though we emerge far apart above ground, our invisible and complex root system connects us across those distances—and always connects me to Colorado. Wherever I go in life, I will always be a mountain girl.

Neuropothy Anyone?

2009-02-26T21:51:00.000-08:00

Not diabetic neuropathy by any means so if that is what you are interested in you can stop reading here.

These are the shoes I like to wear and have worn for the last twenty-five years or so of my life.

Yeah, I will admit it, I grew up in Colorado and I love a good pair of Brikenstocks. My feet love them too. This is what my mom tried to get me to wear.

Ummm...no. No quiero. Gracias.
I'll stick with these.

These babies have taken me through spring, summer, fall, and yes, I even wear them in the winter. When it is dry. Usually.

Kind of like this.

Except those are Chacos. I don't wear Chacos. I wear Birkenstocks. However, even though I wear Birkenstocks, I do shave my legs. Sometimes. So not exactly like that. But you get the picture.

Then I started teaching at the local university. Ye olde BY. My mom was concerned that I was not professional enough. I went on the hunt for something new. My mom brought me twenty pairs of these.

Yikes. Surely there was something better than that. Besides, who actually wears those things? My feet and toes are happy in widespread freedom. In the fresh air with leather lined cork footbeds underneath them. They would definitely not be happy in those things.
Here's what I discovered.

Nice. Comfortable. Stylish. Nice.

Then I went to law school. Suddenly, I have to dress like this.

Or maybe like this.

And guess what, these

Do not go with these

So I bought these.

So cute, right? But they give me neuropothy.
Really. I mean my feet were crying out for freedom. For movement. For cushioning.

...But pretty snazzy, right?

Unfortunately, after having them 4 weeks, the patent cracked. So I took them back. (Bless Nordstrom - don't buy shoes anywhere else. Seriously. Except Zappos.)

And I got these. (But in red.)

And these. (Which the sales girl said I could maybe wear with a pant suit because, "you'd be going for comfort more than beauty with those.")

I'm going to test and see which I like when my neuropothy from the shoes I LOVED goes away.

If it goes away.

Or maybe, all those women who actually wear pumps everyday have permanent neuropathy and that is how they can wear them.

My tootsies are rebelling and begging for the happy, hippie days of cork, fresh air, and unsquished toes.

The feminist in me wonders how we got ourselves into this in the first place. Really. Who thought walking on the toes all day would be a good idea? Oh, yeah, that's right, men did.

Right. Thank you, brothers, for the neuropothy.

Finals...ugh

2008-12-16T19:46:00.000-08:00

I forgot how much I detested finals. Real finals. Not finals in acting class or in my masters program, but finals that actually required a person to study--or at least read over some notes. Well, I guess I never knew how much one could detest finals until I was in law school. Really. The civ pro final today brought semi-grown men to tears. It was, hands down, the craziest test I have ever taken made insanely difficult by how highly timed it was. 36 T/F questions--each with 10-20+ lines of text to read and analyze, then answer T or F and then write an explanation about why you answered that way. Then 4 essays. One timed at an hour, two at ten minutes and the last at 15 minutes. The whole thing had to be complete within three hours. It was also open book--which you may think makes it easy--but frankly, you have no time to look anything up and half the time you don't even know where to look. There were people who completely didn't finish, some who skipped at least two of the essays, and I'm not kidding when I say tears. Truly. Tears. It makes me wonder what will happen when grades come out.

To make matters worse, our proctor left and forgot to come back in to stop the test. Remember the timing is important and we are graded on a strict curve. In these tests you basically get a point for every issue you identify, apply the correct rule, and analyze according to the facts in the question. Even an extra minute or two could garner the extra points that push the smart'uns over the line to the top 10% or something. So when time was really up, but the proctor hadn't come in, folks got antsy. Some (yours truly) had submitted the test as soon as their timer on the screen hit 180 minutes. I knew that the tests print out with a time stamp indicating exactly how minutes you took on the test and anything over 180 could initiate an honor code inquiry. And there is just something about law school that makes you want to live within the boundaries set by the rules. But others--a surprising lot of others kept frantically typing. Finally one kid--one who cried--said, "I think you should all stop now. Really. It is past time and you should stop." A few stopped, but some just looked up at him and kept on typing away. Some claim they couldn't hear because of their earplugs. Yeah, you read that right--earplugs. Apparently in law school we can't take tests with our classmates in large rooms as we have our entire lives without earplugs to block out the distractions and allow us to focus on the difficult intricacies of determining subject matter jurisdiction and whether offensive non-mutual collateral estoppel applies or not.

The proctor rushed in 10 or 15 minutes late. She had set the timer alarm to silent. A) why is there a silent setting for an alarm? Doesn't that kind of defeat the point? B) If it is silent, and it goes off in the library, is it really a timer? Anyway, she was late and flustered, and folks were mad. I was still in the supernal bliss of being done with my hardest class thus far and had just convinced myself that with a little divine intervention, I will not ever again have to sit in civil procedure in absolute terror that I will be called on and everyone around me is apparently speaking mandarin Chinese...when I only speak English.

I can say this much--there will be much ado raised about the tardiness of the proctor, but I don't care how many extra points the furious typists won, I am not doing that test over again. They can't make me. I hope...

This is me breathing a HUGE sigh of relief.

Birthdays

2008-11-17T23:38:00.000-08:00

We had two birthdays yesterday. Maren is 12 now and in Young Women. Hattie is 4. And even though I stayed up all night Saturday, Is till managed to make the gluten free strawberry cream cake that is quickly becoming a family birthday favorite.

A fun time was had by all. Except for realizing that I have a 12-year-old. Time flies when you're having fun.

So, what's it like? Pretty hard?

2008-11-17T23:19:00.000-08:00

No. It's easy. That's why everyone does it.
Let me illustrate. Here's how much we've read thus far this semester.

Civil Procedure: 570 pages
Torts: 652 pages
Property: 713 pages
Writing and Research: 3 complete textbooks (about 500 pages total)
Cases researched for memos: about 250 pages
Professional Seminar: About 150 pages

So what is that? About 2800 pages? In about three months. That makes 945 pages a month. About 47 pages per school day. That's so doable. 47 pages. Sheesh. That's nothin'. Right.

My civil procedure outline is 26 pages so far.
My property outline is 125 PowerPoint slides.
Torts is a mere 15 pages.

All stuff to memorize. Heck, I memorized plays way longer than that. No problem. Right.

I go to school everyday and feel like I can't remember anything. Hoping it all magically comes to me for the final.

I've said so long to Thanksgiving this year. I'll be cramming my head full of things like reasonable prudent person standards, hand formulas, comparative negligence, purposeful availment, minimum contacts, judgments notwithstanding the verdict, eminent domain, public trust doctrines, vested and contingent remainders, fee simple condition to executory limitations, sua sponte, stare decisis, lots of other Latin words I can't remember, and really interesting stuff like that.

And to think, before this year I had never read the Constitution...

You should all at least read the Constitution in honor of my legal education.

Tagged?

2008-10-27T19:31:00.000-07:00

I have never been tagged. I didn't know it existed really and I'm wondering now if it is a little like those "answer the following questions and forward to all your friends" spam that goes around a million times.

But, in the spirit of blogging and believing that all you big Gayle Force fans are actually interested, I'll play along.

I was tagged by my long lost cousin Jennifer. Check out her blog. She's delightful.

Seven random or weird facts about myself.

Well, perhaps it would be easier to list seven facts that aren't random or weird, but I'm in law school now and should probably play by the rules, so here goes...

1. I think I could raise a lot of kids. They don't bug me much and I really love the ones I have. I'm not saying that I could HAVE a lot of kids--I think at some point the equipment just wears out. But I could raise a lot of kids. I like them.

2. I can eat a lot of food. Like a whole lot. People say things like, "Oh, I'll be sick if I have another bite." I don't think I've ever thought that. Ever. I really like food. Was it Voltaire that said eating would be a chore if God hadn't made it so enjoyable? Well, I certainly enjoy it. A lot.

3. I am categorically opposed to large houses. Which makes it so appropriate that I am living in Utah. (And now that I've put it in "print" I will end up in a large house at some point in my life--against my will let me assure you.) I think we are greedy capitalists who live excessively and neglect the needy of the world. 2100 sq feet is perfectly acceptable for a family of 7. Anything over 3000 is pushing it. Once you approach 4000, you're nearing the gates of Hell.

4. I have a secret obsession with the commentary editions of the Lord of the Rings movies. I like to watch and listen to the actors talking and pretend I was there too. Did you see me in the film? I'm the orc that gets crushed by Treebeard. I have dreams about it sometimes.

5. Speaking of dreams, I have a hobby of dream interpretation. Yep. Send me your dream, I'll interpret it. All for free. No extra charge to interpret recurring dreams or to teach you how to dream lucidly. Disclaimer: I do not purport to be a professional. My dream interpretation is for entertainment purposes only. I accept no liability for feelings or actions that may result from said interpretations.

6. I no longer listen to the radio. In the car, by myself, I will occasionally listen to Sum and Substance (law lectures) but generally, I like to just drive and talk to myself and/or God about the world around me and life in general. It's good contemplation time. And if I meditate while driving, it curbs my tendencies towards road rage.

7. And finally, I don't mind people watching me give birth. In addition to my husband, my mom has been there for every one of the girls' arrivals into the world. My children were all present for the births of subsequent children. My 92 year old grandfather was there for the latest addition. He cheered me from the corner, "You can do it, KID!" While I was saying, "I'm going to die! I'm going to die! Don't ever let me do this again!" I even had a good friend who has three adopted children there at the last birth. People find that strange, and sometimes disturbing, but they were really amazing experiences and I wouldn't change a thing. Dean, however, has said that if there are any more additions to the family, it's him and me and the doctor and that's it. He's a bit more private than I, bless him.

I tag:
Monica
Kristy
Heather
Jen
Julienne
Amy
Andy

Nothing like family...

2008-10-24T12:00:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like family to keep you grounded.

Nothing like family to help you through hard times.

Nothing like five girls who cheer and rush you with hugs and kisses when you walk in the door at night.

Nothing like a husband who actually suggests his mom could come for six weeks in the summer if you really really really want to take that international externship.

Nothing like a mom who greets four of the five kids everyday with big smiles and hugs and acts like there is nothing she'd rather be doing than assisting in raising five more kids.

Nothing like a dad who shows absolute belief and confidence in you every step of the way.

There just is nothing quite like family.

Nothing like friends...

2008-10-24T11:43:00.001-07:00

There is nothing like friends who love you exactly the way you are.

Nothing like friends who meet once a week for lunch and renewal.

Nothing like friends who limit their menu choices for said lunches to accommodate your random autoimmune disease preventing your from consuming gluten.

Nothing like friends who are still friends, even when your time to give to them is suddenly dramatically reduced.

Nothing like friends who send texts or emails just hoping that the day is ok.

Nothing like friends who greet you with a hug and a big smile every time they see you.

Nothing like friends who know each other so well it is almost impossible to ever be offended. And if you are, it passes quickly.

There is really nothing quite like my friends.

Nothing like law school....

2008-10-24T11:37:00.000-07:00

There is nothing like law school for decreasing the number of hours you sleep.

Nothing like law school for helping you realize how very un-smart you are.

Nothing like law school for jogging awake those poor semi-dormant synapses and hoping they will at some point begin firing again.

Nothing like law school to give me an added appreciation and love for Dean and every one of the girls.

There is just nothing quite like law school.

In-Laws

2008-09-18T19:53:00.001-07:00

Anytime my in-laws come, there is a conversation something like this.

"My parents are coming tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Uh-huh. Is that OK?"

What exactly am I supposed to say at this point? Really.

"What time will they be here?"

"Oh, around 2, or so."

Let me translate for you--that means they won't be here at 2. That means they won't be here as dinnertime approaches and I will feel obligated to "make dinner," as in something suitable for guests. That means they still won't get here until everything is cold because invariably someone will have to stop off at the bathroom before they make it here.

"Well," I tell myself, "you will be at school all day. You have nothing to worry about."

And I didn't--Dean (the Amazing) cooked dinner, cleaned the house, and did everything else except bake the gf cornbread--I had to do that--gf cornbread is slightly beyond Dean's cooking repertoire.

The thing is, I have great in-laws. I'm always glad to see them. But there is just something about continuing to recover from appendicitis, having my carpet padding ripped out and the carpets just laying on the floor, and having large unpainted patches in my ceiling that make this seem like not the best time. But wait, am I forgetting something?

Oh yeah, LAW SCHOOL.

Here's to in-laws and their always perfect timing.

A more serious thought from law school...

2008-09-11T20:57:00.000-07:00

As I started law school, I realized what a culture shock—educationally speaking—this was going to be for me. These kids are serious. And they are cut-throat. They are looking for every possible thing to give them an advantage. For those who don’t know, law school is graded on a true bell curve—meaning that there are a certain number (maybe 2/143) of 4.0s that will be awarded, a certain number of 3.9s, 3.8s and so on. Most of us will end up with straight Cs ranked right in the middle of the class. This creates a HUGE amount of competition amongst the class. Mostly because only the students who graduate in the top 10% of the class will have the opportunity to work in the “big money” firms. Also, if you want to be a law professor, you have to finish very high in your class. Adding to this competitive environment is the fact that, at BYU, if you finish in the top 20% of the class you automatically receive a scholarship. And remember that these are type A people. The front rows in the classrooms fill first, almost everyone in my class has a college GPA of 3.8 or higher, and folks seem anxious to prove that they are already experts at analyzing cases and understanding the application of the law.

So, this bothers me. I keep reminding myself that comparing, competing, categorizing and criticizing are in direct opposition to charity. That literally, when we are involved in the first 4 c’s, it is impossible to open our hearts and receive the ultimate ‘c’ from our Savior.

I thought more about this on Sunday when I read out of the Joseph Smith manual, “In this world, mankind are naturally selfish, ambitious, and striving to excel one above another; yet some are willing to build up others as well as themselves. So in the other world there are a variety of spirits. Some seek to excel. And this was the case with Lucifer when he fell.” It reminded me of King Benjamin’s instruction that “the natural (wo)man is an enemy to God and has been from the beginning.”

And then I read a great article by Bruce C. Hafen, called "2 Cheers for Excellence." (It's copyrighted so I can't post it.) I know you aren’t all in school, but I think the principles apply to us at any stage of life. I have heard so many people say that, “I am being obedient, why aren’t I as blessed as…” or “I can never make it to the celestial kingdom, I’m not as good as so and so…” or “If I just keep doing everything I should do, I will be a great success,” (or things sort of like that) that I think we do forget that the Lord told Adam that the earth was cursed for his sake. And we forget that if our first parents had never left the garden, they would not have known the sweet because they had not experienced the bitter. And we forget that “the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away blessed be the name of the Lord.” There is a lot more to our probation here than acquiring all the trappings associated with success—whether that be money, large homes, fancy clothes, or even a “perfect” family, a visible and busy calling, or some other symbol we’ve created as a gauge of our spiritual excellence.

In our “winner takes all” world, I think this is a good reminder of where our focus should truly be. Not on the prizes men hold up as excellent, but only on the eternal prize that will bring us back to our Father with the opportunities for continued family relationships without end.

So...How is LAW SCHOOL?

2008-09-09T20:06:00.000-07:00

That is the question I hear most these days. So, here are a few things I've picked up so far.

1. Anyone can sound smart if they are talking about something you've never heard of. Really. If you asked me about the intentional torts, right of publicity, or personal jurisdiction I could sound really smart to you (granted you aren't an attorney or a law school professor or anything like that).

2. Competition and charity are not compatible.

3. It's always easier on everyone involved if you just freely admit when you have no idea what is going on around you. "Ms. Belnap, what is the holding in Weaver?" "I have no idea." "Can anyone help Ms. Belnap?" Did you see how quickly the prof leaves you alone when you don't know. In fact, if they call on me and I do know, I think I'll pretend that I don't.

4. When you start something new, rest assured that "regular life" will become immensely more complicated.
For example, maybe your house will flood because a small child has poured birdseed down an upstairs drain. Maybe the birdseed will sprout and grow grass in your drain. Maybe said small child (or another child) will leave the faucet in the grassy sink on before you leave for five hours. Maybe when your husband comes home there will be water pouring out of your kitchen lights.

Maybe. If you're lucky.

And if you are really lucky, maybe you'll wake up with appendicitis a week later. And maybe (well, let's hope) that will result in emergency surgery. And maybe you'll get to miss your second week of law school.

And maybe when you go back, younger and obviously smarter male classmates will say, "Where have YOU been? I thought you dropped out."

You mean you HOPED I dropped out Big Boy because when those class standings come out I will dominate and destroy you.

OK, that last part is not very likely. Let's face it, I have dinner to cook, dishes to wash, stories to read, plays to make, orthodontists to visit and stuff like that.

Could YOU do all that AND law school Pretty Boy? Could you? Huh? All with three painful incisions in your overly generous abdomen? And all while lifting no more than ten pounds? Yeah, I didn't think so.

So., to answer the perpetual inquiry, "How is LAW SCHOOL?!" I say, "It is AMAZING! The best thing I've ever done educationally. I feel smart and important and really well-loved there. I'm really glad I left a job I loved and something I was really good at to go there!" And I flash a winning smile. It's working for me so far.

Car Washing

2008-08-13T19:59:00.000-07:00

We traumatized Maeve today taking her through the carwash. She was terrified. Another reason to make me the mother of the year.

Enough was not enough...

2008-08-13T19:58:00.000-07:00

The 10 year old was vomitting again last night. Will this accursed illness ever end?!

Enough is Enough

2008-08-09T22:25:00.001-07:00

WARNING: there are several mentions of sort of gross bodily functions in the following post. Don't read it if it is going to gross you out.

OK--here's what my life has been like for the last week and a half.

Thursday--1 year old has diarrhea...that leaks all over my mother's house while she is babysitting. Dean and I were at the temple, where we waited for an hour in the chapel and then came home because it was too late to go through a whole session.

Thursday night--1 year old vomits three times. I change the bed and do the laundry three times. Once at 2:00 am, again at 2:47 am, and once more at 3:58 am.

Friday--I cancel lunch with friends so I can stay home with sick child. She has messy, stinky diarrhea--lots--I lost track of how many times we cleaned the bed, the baby, the floor, the high chair--you name it, we cleaned it up.

Saturday--No more vomiting, but poo refuses to solidify.

Sunday--Seems safe enough, so we go to church. Thankfully, no terrible incidents.

Monday--Make up lunch with friends. There are five us us, 22 of our kids. I am late getting the food done. One friend barely gets to eat before she has to leave and pack for a family reunion. One of friend's children is sick. He lays down in my bed.

Monday night--3 year old starts feeling sick. Lots of crying through the night, but no vomit (thankfully).

Tuesday--6 year old gets sick. Sleeps for several hours. Gets a nasty fever, diarrhea, and feels like she is going to vomit.

Tuesday night--6 year old wakes up several times and I medicate her for her fever. She moans and groans a lot. 1 year old throws up again. Disgusting, chunky throw-up. I can barely keep myself from just throwing the sheets and blanket away. Really. Good thing I have no extra funds right now. Waste not, want not. Frankly, I can barely drag myself up and downstairs anymore.

Wednesday--6 year old sleeps all day. 3 year old complains of not feeling well. Husband leaves for Mutual. He says he isn't feeling great.

Thursday--I leave sick kiddies to do the co-op, the go help dress a body for a funeral on Friday. One year old STILL has horrific diarrhea. Horrific.

Friday--leave sick kids again to go to funeral. Husband gets increasingly ill as we attend the services and the burial at the graveside.

Friday night--I'm feeling sick. Husband throws up 4 times, 9 year old throws up once. I'm up with them most of the night.

Saturday--pretty much everyone but the 11 year old and me are laid out in bed. Those who have quit vomiting all have diarrhea. No one has energy to clean a thing. The whole house stinks. The dirty dishes are insane. My floor is so dirty that I hurt my feet with every step--popcorn kernels, rice, beans, whatever. And I step in banana people have dropped and not picked up two separate times. Gross.

Today--I leave everyone at home with Husband except 6 year old and 11 year old. I have a blissfully peaceful sacrament meeting. Go home and make pizza. I sleep for a long time. I am thankful for good health. Everyone seems to be pinking up. Enough certainly is enough.

(Knock on wood.)

The Maytag Man

2008-08-09T21:30:00.000-07:00

OK, well, technically, none of this has anything to do with the Maytag man. I just like the sound of that...THE MAYTAG MAN. Plus it brings great memories of Gordon Jump interrupting favorite Love Boat re-runs of my youth. Ah, The Love Boat.

My story has to do with the Whirlpool Man. Which may be the start of my problem--I mean the Maytag Man is never busy because Maytag appliances never break down, right? So, if my experience is any indication, the Whirlpool Man is considerably busier. If we wanted to be more specific, we could call him (them) the Kitchen Aid Man (men). Because that is what my dishwasher is. A great big stainless steel Kitchen Aid monster.

Two years ago, I got a dishwasher for my anniversary. We went and looked and inspected and asked and finally decided on this beauty. Ranked high by Consumer Reports with a full stainless steel interior and rack space that promised no more than two loads of dishes for any given meal. (OK--that is good for us considering we have 7 mouths to feed regularly and often 9 when my parents join in the frenzy.) Plus, this washer promised no pre-washing necessary. It had some kind of magical grinder that could take care of food remnants left on the dishes. Including--I kid you not--"small chicken bones." Well, we aren't idiots, so though we felt this washer would work well, we didn't really plan on throwing chicken bones in with our dirty dishes.

My dad installed the thing and we began to wash dishes automatically with super heavy duty pot-scrubbing cycles and heated, sanitizing dry cycles. All went well for the first six months, but Sister, the honeymoon ended. And it ended big. Suddenly, none of the dishes in the top rack were getting clean anymore. At all. In fact, they were coming out DIRTIER than they went in.

So, I called Kitchen Aid and exercised our rights under our warranty. They sent a man. A repairman. The Whirlpool Man.

At first, this particular repairman reminded me in some ways of my unusual, but mostly friendly Uncle. We chatted, I explained the problem, he took out his tools and started taking things apart. Slowly--almost imperceptibly--the conversation turned to why my Kitchen Aid anniversary gift was not working.

"What do you put in here?"

"Umm, our dirty dishes."

"Yeah--what's on 'em?"

"Umm, food left over after we've eaten."

At this point the man starts turning from a friendly neighborhood repairman into an accusatory advocate for my dishwasher and the dishwasher's pump.

"You can't just put anything in here you know."

He starts putting remnants of things on my counter. It is disgusting.

"Haah," I laugh uncomfortably, "what is that?! Is that paper?! That's weird, because I'm pretty sure that we don't have paper on our plates after eating dinner. Ha, haa, ahh..."

"I'm sure I don't know what it is."

"Well, we DO rinse our dishes."

"Mmhmm."

"No, we DO."

He puts more disgusting stuff on my counter.

"Eww, is that a toothpick?"

"Looks like it to me."

"Well, I know that we don't put toothpicks in there. But the literature DID say that the food grinder can take care of chicken bones."

"That doesn't actually mean that you can put chicken bones in here."

"It doesn't?"

"Nope."

"What does it mean?"

"It means they are trying to sell you a dishwasher. Hee hee hee."

"Oh, OK."

"Listen," he puts more crud on my kitchen counter, "if you call me out here to do this again, I'm not charging the warranty, I'll make you pay for it."

OK, I'm not really sure he can do that, but I'm already feeling stupid, so I just nod, sign the receipt of service and see him out the door.

Then I'm left with the pile of disgusting food relics on my kitchen counter.

But the dishwasher works, so I decide to be more careful about what gets in the washer.

Six months later...

the same thing happens. The dishes in the top aren't getting clean.
But this time, I know what to do.
I tell Dean to do it.
He does.
It works again.

Six months later...

the same thing happens AGAIN!
Dean cleans it out AGAIN!
But this time, it doesn't work.

So now what? I can't call the GUY again because he threatened me. And, frankly, he scared me a little.

So I call Kitchen Aid.
Our warranty has expired.
They can't, correction WON'T help us.
Grrr...

Fortunately, we purchased an extended warranty with the washer. Fortunately, the extended warranty people use a different repair service. Fortunately, that means a different Whirlpool Man comes to our house to help us.

He comes in and I laughingly explain the situation. Laughingly in important here because I am ENORMOUSLY frustrated at this point. Keep in mind we bought the thing for well over $700 only a year and a half previously and it has stopped working 3 times. Plus, we've been hand washing ALL our dishes for about 3 months! So, I laughingly explain the situation. He comes into the kitchen.

"Is that paint on your counter?"

"Oh, yeah--that's because I let the kids help paint a bathroom. Haaa, haah, ahhh."

"Hmmm."

"Luckily, it comes off, I just haven't gotten around to getting it off yet."

"Right."

At this point I know what he is thinking. Something like,"You idiot people. Of course you don't take care of your dishwasher you don't even wash the paint off your counter."

"Well, you know how it is. You either end up with kids who won't work, or you let them work with you and end up..."

"With ruined appliances. Yep. I chose the first option. I never let my son do anything with me."

"Really?"

"Nope--wasn't worth the hassle."

At this point he shows me and my husband a tricky little screw that we had missed in taking the washer apart ourselves. He takes out the screw, removes the cover to whatever the piece is, and then piles more crud on my counter. Only this time, most of the pile is composed of little plastic pieces that have fallen off the dishwasher racks. That's right. The almost-two-year-old dishwasher is falling apart and clogging itself.

"Yeah, and now he won't do anything."

I'm feeling a little uncomfortable at this point.

"Really?"

"Nope. Just sits around all day."

Is this a confessional mister? Do I look like a priest?

"My dad says I need to get him out of the house--he's 26 and still lives at home--he says just kick him out on the street then he'll learn."

"That's tough." I can't think of anything to say.

"Yeah. But I don't have the heart to do it."

"No, I guess not."

By now, he's put the pump and everything else back together. Cleaned up his tools and he has me sign the service receipt.

"Well, at least you know how to clean it out yourself now. Good luck teaching those kids to work."

I suddenly found myself grateful for the three months of hand washed dishes.

And grateful for parents and a church that taught me that work is good.

And. let's be honest, grateful my dishwasher is working again--at least for the next six months.

Never Enough to go Around

2008-07-30T12:03:00.001-07:00

I have a theory that I believe is pretty well proven. It is that there is never enough of a woman to go around. Imagine my joy at having this confirmed by Julie Beck, a woman I greatly admire. She said to a group of women studying at the J. Reuben Clark Law School, " There is never enough of a woman to go around. There just isn't."

She then talked about the fact that she has worked outside the home many times in her life and that she currently works over 100 hours per week.

That's a lot.

I've tried this summer to make it the summer to remember. But there is still never enough to go around.

I spent time traveling around Utah, swimming, doing projects in the house, swimming, sewing quilts, swimming, reading books, and swimming all with all five of my kids practically attached at the hip. And though we all had a GREAT TIME, there was still not enough of me.

Tonight, Hollis said to me, "Mom, I love that you do things with us and don't just tell us to go away. I mean we ask you to pose for crazy pictures and you actually do it instead of just saying, 'go play by yourselves,' or something."

And then Maren said, "Well, not very much. I mean you don't play with us very much, but I'm sure you are better than some moms. But some moms are probably better than you."

Nothing like the biting honesty of an eleven-year-old.

It all went well with the song my six-year-old made up for me today:

"Mom, you are great and I love you,
You mean more to me than ugly poo."

So I'm ranking high these days.

I told a friend that Mandy didn't say HOW MUCH MORE I MEAN than ugly poo, so there is still hope.

There just is never enough of me to go around. Ugly poo--probably enough of that.

My Big Chubby Dolly

2008-05-29T20:26:00.000-07:00

Mandy has a new pet name for me. She calls me her big chubby dolly. When other people hear this, they are shocked and embarrassed and try to tell her, "Oh, that's not true." To which I respond, "Sure it is. I am a big chubby dolly. She likes it because I'm nice to hug and have lots of soft places to rest her head."

Something strange and sort of unfair happened after Maeve was born. I was still 20 pound heavier than my pre-pregnancy weight. Then, when I quit nursing, I gained 10 more pounds. Not fair at all. I still run three miles a day. I eat a pretty OK diet, but the kids, my age, and genetics are getting the best of me.

The worst thing about this is that I have no clothing that fits and since I'm starting law school in the fall, I don't have extra cash for a new wardrobe either. Hmmm. Besides, I'm holding out hope that my hormones will regulate themselves and I'll eventually be able to get to a slightly healthier weight. But if not...

Are you crazy?!

2008-05-29T20:14:00.000-07:00

That is the comment I have heard repeatedly--almost consistently--since I've been actually letting the cat out of the bag. What cat? Oh, that I'm starting law school in August. As my sweet husband says, "You just shouldn't have told anyone." Hear, hear.

Well, the cat is out of the bag and the general response is an obvious question of my sanity level. Listen, I have five daughters, (and kind of want to try for one more if I'm not too old) so that question is already answered, right?

There are a few select friends who have been genuinely excited for me. Most of them are not related to me, are single, and do not have children. (MOST--there are a few who have children who are excited for me too.)

I can't really decide why the drastic response. I mean it is really drastic--it isn't a laughing, "hee hee you must be off your rocker to think you can do that!" it is a jaw falling to the ground eyes searching for some clue that I'm kidding and then in low tones, "What? Are you crazy?" As if I've announced I'm planning to kill someone or something.

I suppose part of that comes because I'm a mom. And I should be focused on my kids and not myself. Well, I sort of think that I am doing this for them, but I could be delusional. And I suppose I'm going against prophetic counsel. At least that is what some have told me.

Maybe some people are jealous. But I can tell you--I've seen what my schedule is like just for school and that doesn't count laundry, dishes, cooking, reading with kids, etc and you really should not be jealous.

I've decided to assume that most just can't believe that I would actually get accepted to law school, let alone a school in the top 50. I can't really believe that either. And for it to matter at all I have to finish in the top 50% of the class over the next three years.

Perhaps they are all right. I am crazy. Save a spot for me up Center Street on the hill. And someone hire me an attorney, please.

Discovered another problem...

2008-05-29T20:13:00.000-07:00

I don't know how to make my blog(s) look cool.

I've discovered my problem...

2008-05-29T19:40:00.000-07:00

I write too much at once. Check out my post on orthodontics. See what I mean? Way too long. Check out Kacy, or my friend Cynthia, or Lisa. Nice, concise, to the point. I'm setting a goal to quit pontificating and become pithy. Wish me luck.

Is blogging really for me?...

2008-05-29T19:39:00.000-07:00

I can't quite decide, because:
A) I never take the time to do it
B) No one reads it (see A)
C) I may not be good at it (see B)
D) I never take the time to do it (see C)

Brace Yourself

2008-03-03T22:43:00.000-08:00

I have five daughters. Beautiful daughters. They all have teeth. And some of those teeth are crooked. I blame Dean entirely. His teeth are crooked too. And more power to him for sticking it to the man and never having braces. So his will stay crooked. My daughters', however, will be straightened. And that, happily, is where the story begins.

Hollis has exceptionally crowded lower teeth. "Moderate to extreme" is how the orthodontists put it. (Plural? Yes--we'll get there in a minute.) She also has a noticeable overbite. So, being the mother of the year that I am, and knowing that in accordance with the American Association of Orthodontics, initial orthodontic evaluation should occur no later than age 7, I starting shopping for an orthodontist about 6 months ago, just after Hollis turned 9.

My mother gave me the first referral. It was to an office she passed going to the dentist. We called and made an appointment. We walk into a large office with leather couches, leather chairs, marble countertops and tables, suede throw cushions on the leather couches and chairs and an enormous flat screen plasma TV. "Hmm," I think to myself, "I believe this guy may rip us off." We watch as other patients are called back by girls who are what I like to call "plasticized." Long bleached hair carefully straightened, eyebrows perfectly arched and penciled in, lips glossy and fresh. Now I hate to mention it, but these girls were clearly members of the "B&B Club." The What? The "Hi, look at my artificially enhanced BREASTS, oh, now I'll turn around and you can look at my lifted and toned BUTT." Let me be clear that I am not bitter here. I certainly do not have enhanced breasts (unless you count nursing as enhanced) and my but is far from lifted, but I embrace that really. This has nothing to do with jealousy. But really, you think I'm going to bring my daughters in regularly to a place where the unreal and (naturally) unattainable ideal from fashion magazines is constantly in front of them in flesh and blood? Nope--not going to subject them to that.

Eventually, we get called back. As we walk behind Barbie #264, I notice that there are flat-screen TVs installed above every single chair in the office. Nice. The doctor later said that those are really hand, especially when working with kids because they are so hard to control and the TVs help them zone out. And, that's a good thing?

We are shown into a room that has another leather couch and a leather exam chair with shiny chrome accessories. I'm just itching to meet this guy. Really.

Finally, he makes his appearance. Blond (spent a fortune at the salon in product alone), buttery smooth fresh-from-cleaners dress shirt with gorgeous slacks that had to have cost a small fortune in and of themselves. Italian leather shoes with those funny but trendy long toes. And a fair amount of expensive cologne.

He flashes a picture perfect smile and then looks at Hollis' teeth. No x-rays. No computer. Just a quick look. And then gives me his diagnosis. She'll need braces right away and then will need them again in a few years.

Ummm, excuse me? What? Braces twice?

Yes, he tells me it is a common practice in severe cases. Besides, isn't it worth it to pay the money and do the work now so that she won't be teased at school? And before we know it he'll have them off and she'll be as beautiful as oh, say, Brittney Spears...or Jessica Simpson...or whoever Hollis' favorite pop star is.

I stop him there.

"How about as beautiful as Hollis Belnap? Because she is pretty great."

That gets a gratuitous laugh and half-hearted agreement from "the doc." And he promptly leaves us to get the financial breakdown from Barbie #478 and to schedule an appointment with Barbie #351.

He wanted to charge us upwards of $6000 (got a few bills to pay, do ya?) and put Hollis in braces twice. I was reluctant to make an appointment. Don't call me, I'll call you.

Let's see what's behind Door #2.

Next stop was total opposite of Ortho #1. The office was in a strip mall. We walked in to furniture from the early 80s at least and grimy carpet that looked like it had been there since Donny Osmond was really considered a pop star. I know, you're thinking, "well make up your mind," but can't there be a happy medium? I'm wondering what this guy does with all his money. 'Cause I'm pretty sure orthodontists do all right for themselves.

We go back to a room that reminds me of an elementary school locker room (minus the lockers) and he also takes a quick look in Hollis' mouth and give his diagnosis. No need for any treatment at all for a good long time. He'll call us in a year. His assistant sat next to him the whole time chomping on gum and nodding her head in agreement to everything he said. Because that was going to convince me that he knew what he was talking about.

I'll move onto Door #3

This was almost a happy medium. A clean, updated office that was not over the top. Still, there were things that bugged me. Like glamour shots of the two doctors, their families and all the assistants and staff who worked there. Like a whole wall of them. Really. Glamour shots. With the make-up, hairstyles and all. I'm all for good grooming and looking the best we can, but that was a little overboard.

However, this doc took x-rays and answered my questions completely and didn't say anything about making Hollis look like anyone but herself.

We were getting closer--much closer--on this one. Until he saw Maren--we'll go there in a minute.

Door #4, if you don't mind.

I wasn't expecting too much here--the office was in a snobby part of town (are you catching that I'm something of a reverse snob? I think it has to do with my leanings towards socialism), and the person who had recommended the guy said, "They know exactly the spacing that they have to create to give you the 'perfect' smile. I mean perfect! Like, they measured models smiles and came up with a formula and these are the only guys who really know how to do that." So, I was prepared for the worst.

I wasn't really disappointed either. This guy had barbies all over the place too. Also the fancy photos . Also the extravagantly expensive furniture. Also the TVs. The deal was pretty much sealed when he walked in wearing a stripy purple shirt unbuttoned at the collar with a blingy chain around his neck. I'm looking for an orthodontist, not a pimp, thank you very much.

So, #3 was the man of the hour. (Notice that are no women in the lineup--there were no female orthodontists that I found or that were recommended to me. Interesting.) We took his advice, pulled a couple of Hollis' teeth and then sat and waited for her to get more permanent teeth.

Meanwhile...

Maren turned 11 and got all her permanent teeth, so I had the bright idea to take her to the orthodontist. Maren has gorgeous teeth. To my untrained eye they look perfect. But, I like to cover my bases. So, off to Doctor #3 we go. He checks Maren. He reports that she has an overbite, slight crossbite in the back, and that her two front teeth are a bit lower than they like--they should line up more closely with her other teeth. So, we can start her on braces right away.

Whoa. What? This was the kid I was going to be able to get by without braces. What?

So I ask, "Are the braces really necessary for functionality or is it mostly cosmetic?"

He looks at me and grins, "Yeah. They are definitely necessary." He launches into a comparison of teeth and gears.

I meet with an assistant about the financial aspect and am very nicely told that I would be paying $4800 (choke) for my daughter's treatment. But I like this place pretty well and I feel like it needs to be done, so I make the appointment.

$4800.

Luckily, I happen to ask a friend how much she paid for her kids braces. "$3800." What?! That's $1000 less than I was just told. I get the name and number of her doctor. I call the office and inquire about their price for treatment. I'm wondering if my friend got a discount or something because she has no insurance or because her husband is an educator or something. Nope--that is their standard rate! Giddyup and give me an appointment.

Then I get nervous. What if he's a quack? What if he has no clue what he's talking about? Gravy--what if I mess up Maren's teeth for life?

So today we went there.

Lovely office. Well kept and not presumptuous. A plain old TV that isn't even turned on. Simply but nicely decorated and not looking like everything has been there for 30 years. Is it possible that he isn't a quack?

We are shown back. Guess what--no glamor shots. Not one. In fact, there are some pictures of patients, but they are cute snapshots with normal looking people starring back at us. And there are snapshots of the staff as well--and THEY are normal people staring back at us.

We go into a small side room where his diplomas are on the wall. He graduated from the Mayo Clinic summa cum laude so he can't be too much of a quack. He comes in, looks at Maren's teeth carefully--more thoroughly than any other doctor to this point--and then he says that she just has a slight overbite, her bite overall is fine and a little crowding in the bottom which will worsen over time. She could get braces, but doesn't have to, and she could even have a retainer on the bottom with brackets on top. He answered my questions respectfully and intelligently and was (brace yourself) remarkably honest.

OK, so what is it going to cost really? $3780. That's right. More than $1000 less than doctor #3. $3000 less than slimeball #1. I was so excited I bought candy for my friend who told me about him and took the kids all out to lunch.

Hallelujah, the search is over.

Losing Mandy at the BYU Football Game

2007-11-29T22:29:00.000-08:00

Yes, I lost her, can you believe it? She had her purse with her and had $3 and decided she wanted some cotton candy, so we start making our way through the hoards of people surrounding our bleacher in an effort to get to the stairs. She is much more maneuverable than I am and of course makes it through faster, but her little pink hat is in sight and I’m yelling after her, so I think she’ll eventually stop, but of course I’m wrong—the cotton candy guy is in sight and she is determined.

I finally make it out to the steps (After my dad slips me cash to buy sodas as well) and the stairway is FULL of people (oh yeah, it is half time—I forgot to mention that)--I mean totally full of people and no pink hat ANYWHERE to be found. So I start trying to get by people saying, “Excuse me, I’ve lost my daughter…” but get this—THEY WON’T LET ME BY! So I start explaining, “She’s only five and I can’t even see her—I really need to get by.” And one lady looks at me like I’m speaking Finnish and just stands there. So I shove my way through the best I can without literally throwing people down and finally get to the bottom of the stairs. No Mandy. No sign of her anywhere.

But there is a cop. I grab him and tell him I’ve lost my daughter. I was rather proud of myself at this point because I could describe everything she was wearing, “She’s five years old, about this tall, she has on jeans with red embroidery and rhinestone embellishments, pink sparkly boots, white bobby socks, a pink baseball cap with VAIL embroidered in white and baby blue and a navy blue t-shirt with a puppy on it and a slogan about seeing eye dogs. She’s blond with bangs and a bob that comes just past her ears. Her name is Mandy.”

Here’s what he wrote, “5 … pink hat … blue shirt … Mandy”

So, I fight my way back UP the staircase, through the hoards and grab my brother rather desperately saying I’ve lost Mandy and he has to help me look for her. Which he does. We fight back through the hoards, down the steps, calling her name as we go. We see the cop on the radio still describing her to the other BYU cops in attendance. We get down to the concourse and walk/run a fair distance in both directions looking—nothing. We go down one more level (yes—our seats were nosebleeders) and look all over—all the way out to the parking lot—nothing. So we make our way back up and as we approach our section, I see the cop holding her hand and starting up the steps towards our seats.

I go to get her and pick her up and THEN she starts crying. She was all smiles and happy until she saw her panicked mother. Scott swings her up on his shoulders, we walk down to find cotton candy (because the hawker has disappeared by this time) spend all of her three dollars plus $2.50 more for an extra large bag she can share with everyone and go back to watch the rest of the game. I made her promise not to tell Grammy anything about it.

Mother of the year.

If I Had Made it to Lunch Last Week

2007-10-28T22:00:00.000-07:00

I have some friends that I regularly meet for lunch once a week. We affectionately call ourselves “The Lunchladies.” We have some 26 children between the six of us—think of that, a classroom full of kids and only six moms. One moved to Seattle, so she’s not at lunch regularly anymore, but we love her just the same.

All six of us are full-time mothers because being mothers and raising our children ourselves is something we all committed to early in our marriages. Four of us do not work outside of our homes (though one of those four runs a pretty cool sewing business from her upstairs sewing room and downstairs office).

Two of us work part time outside the home. I work 30 hours a week at the BY. I like my job and think I contribute a least a little bit there.

At least one of us still wants more children. At least one of us was surprised by children. At least one of us adopted children. Three of us have graduate degrees. One of us is finishing an undergraduate degree. Some of us take children on fabulous trips to L.A. for Broadway shows and shopping in the fashion district. Some of us take children to the fabulous living room for a DVD and shopping in the storage district. In other words, each member of this group is unique in situation, individual in contribution, and (it goes without saying) exceptional in disposition.

I believe that what brings us together more than anything else is our common faith and the fact that in each other, we have repeatedly found "another human being who has some inkling of that something which [we] were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, [we] are looking for, watching for, listening for" (Lewis, C.S. The Problem of Pain, p 150).

Well, I missed lunch last week. Which is sad for a multitude of reasons, but particularly sad because I missed discussion about a relevant topic that was then mentioned to me in multiple settings and which I have since researched to some degree and have been disturbed. So, what better to do than blog?

Recently, Julie Bangeter Beck gave an address at General Conference entitled "Mothers Who Know." It outlined principles for women in the Church to consider as they move forward in raising families. Julie Beck had been sustained as the president of the general Relief Society only six months previous to this discourse, but had served for some time at the general level of the church, most recently as a counselor in the general Young Women presidency, so she was no stranger to the intricacies and sometime difficulties of addressing the needs of a world-wide church. Well, the talk created controversy. Let me rephrase that, people who heard the talk created controversy. Huge controversy if you're a follower of web discussions (did I surprise you with that link? you didn't think I would promote anyone speaking against her, did you?), but since most of us don't have time for that, we may have been oblivious had it not been for an article in The Salt Lake Tribune telling us all about it. And another article in the Trib telling us about it again. And I imagine the controversy is rather Utah based. If I had my druthers and were living in Colorado (go Rockies!) I probably wouldn't even hear about it. But I have, so here we are.

Those women (and men) offended by this article claim that Sister Beck is taking some archaic stance on women's roles and propelling us back to the proverbial 50's in terms of equal rights, contribution to society and the like. They take offense that her description of "mothers who know" is not a perfect description of their lives. They venture to justify personal choices made thoughtfully through careful prayer and personal revelation (which process eliminates the need for justification, right?). So, if you'll excuse me, I'm just going to speculate and ruminate a little here.

Julie Beck was not presenting a cookie cutter model that she expects all LDS women to follow. She was teaching principles and leaving us to govern ourselves.

For Example...

PRINCIPLE 1--Mothers who know bear children

The first commandment that God gave to Adam and Eve pertained to their potential for parenthood as husband and wife. We declare that God’s commandment for His children to multiply and replenish the earth remains in force.

APPLICATION--Well, Let's look at what the Church says about having children...

Children are one of the greatest blessings in life, and their birth into loving and nurturing families is central to God’s purposes for humanity. When husband and wife are physically able, they have the privilege and responsibility to bring children into the world and to nurture them. The decision of how many children to have and when to have them is a private matter for the husband and wife.

Do you think Julie Beck doesn't know this? Hello, she's the general Relief Society president. Trust me, she knows it. She is not saying here that every LDS woman should go out and have children till her uterus falls out. She is teaching a principle--if we have a testimony of the gospel, we will welcome the responsibility and privilege to bear and raise children. We will not postpone that opportunity because of fear or because of less important opportunities that may present themselves to us. (Julie Beck has three children.)

PRINCIPLE 2--Mothers who know honor sacred ordinances and covenants

We "strive for an attitude of propriety and decency in dress, grooming, language, and behavior. We do not draw undue attention to ourselves. Instead, we seek to 'glorify God in [our] body, and in [our] spirit.'"

Here's the sentence that really caused controversy on this one,

"They bring daughters in clean and ironed dresses with hair brushed to perfection; their sons wear white shirts and ties and have missionary haircuts."

APPLICATION--That is one example of the application of the principle--and an impressive one at that because the women she was talking about are from the "poorest places on the earth." They honor the ordinance of the sacrament so much that it shows in how they prepare themselves and their families to participate in that ordinance. (Personally, I think it is sad that in our country where clothing can be found or made relatively inexpensively, we persist in allowing our daughters to wear flip-flops, shirts that are too tight and revealing and thong underwear showing out the top of their hip-banded skirts. We fail to instill in our sons the symbolism of wearing a white shirt, the importance of wearing pants that appropriately cover their underwear, and why they should wear hairstyles that show reverence and respect for the unspeakable gift of the atonement.) Again, no one is saying we have to have fashion plates for children. We do the very best we can. We use wisdom and teach modesty and put the principle to work in our families.

PRINCIPLE 3--Mothers who know are nurturers (homemakers)

By divine design, fathers are to preside over their families in love and righteousness and are responsible to provide the necessities of life and protection for their families. Mothers are primarily responsible for the nurture of their children. In these sacred responsibilities, fathers and mothers are obligated to help one another as equal partners.

Get over it, we are nurturers, OK? (That doesn't mean that our husbands are not. They are our equal partners, remember.) Generally, the principle would indicate that women have the more ready inclination toward nurturing, but that will vary on an individual level. The principle is that we are primarily responsible to nurture children.

APPLICATION--WHY WHY WHY must we (particularly women) continually invalidate the importance of this work?! Why do we even have phrases like, "Well, it is just housework." "I'm just cleaning the house, really boring." "I don't think I can stand this drudgery one more second!" I am guilty of saying it and so are you. They are jobs that are not glamorous, sought-after, or well-paid but we are laying the foundation of a great work! They are not rewarding to us because we have grown up in a society that buys the lie that they are not worthwhile. I am committing right here to not say those things anymore. I'm going to use phrases like, "I'm nurturing the rising generation" (Homework). "I'm clothing the army of God" (Laundry). "I'm creating an environment where the Spirit can dwell continually, witness of the Father and the Son, and teach the truth of all things" (Cleaning the house).

It's getting too late and I'm not going to go on through the rest of the points--unless I am still emblazoned with passion about it in a few more days. I'll just say this...

She is an experienced and intelligent Church leader. She knows the doctrine and quite frankly, she won't get up and teach something all crazy and backwards in conference. It ain't gonna happen, so get over it people. We do not belong to an archaic cult that sees women as second-class citizens and that lie is certainly not part of our doctrine. Over a hundred years ago, Brigham Young taught this truth:

As I have often told my sisters in the Female Relief Societies, we have sisters here who, if they had the privilege of studying, would make just as good mathematicians or accountants as any man; and we think they ought to have the privilege to study these branches of knowledge that they may develop the powers with which they are endowed. We believe that women are useful, not only to sweep houses, wash
dishes, make beds, and raise babies, but that they should stand behind the counter, study law or physic, or become good bookkeepers and be able to do the business in any counting house, and all this to enlarge their sphere of usefulness for the benefit of society at large. In following these things they but answer the design of their creation (Discourses of BrighamYoung pp. 216-217).

President Hinckley has continually taught that women are not second rate in the Church or in the world. He points out that we are 1/2 the population of both communities and the mothers to the other 1/2 and cannot be dismissed lightly.

President Kimball and President Benson strongly taught about the importance of motherhood, rearing and raising children, and keeping women out of the workforce not because we are not capable, but because the societal loss of a mother in her home contributes to the disintegration of the family.

Do not misunderstand me, I am not saying that you, Sally Smith, are causing a disintegration of your family because you have been left single and must work to support yourself and your four children. I am not saying that you, Bertha Bettleheim, are failing in your calling because you work outside your home to pay bills and assist your husband as an equal partner in his responsibilities to preside, provide, and protect (just as your husband assists you as an equal partner in nurturing the children). I am saying that as a society, we have allowed ourselves to buy into Satan's lie that the work a woman does at home is of less value or importance than the work she could otherwise do in the world. We need powerful reminders like Julie Beck's talk to help us quench the fiery darts of the adversary and remind us of what really has worth in this life.

That's at least part of what I would have said if I had made it to lunch last week.

My Love Affair and the Trouble It's Brought Me

2007-10-14T01:43:00.000-07:00

Since I was a child I have had a problem with food. I love it. Not because I have to eat. Not because I want to be healthy and strong. Not because it looks pretty. Because I love to eat. I love textures blending with flavors meshing with scents to create a high as addictive as...well, I don't know. I've never been addicted to an addictive substance (other than food) so I can't say with any authority, but I'm confident that it is pretty darn addictive. If I'm at a meal and the food is good, I can't understand why people stop eating. "I'm just full." "If I eat another bite, I'll burst." "I can't stuff one more thing in there." My response? "Well, pass it on over here--thanks for leaving more for the rest of us."

As a non-discriminating child, this led to eating entire tubs of Cool-Whip, the top third of the gallon of ice cream (and then turning the entire block of ice cream over so no one would know), and untold servings of instant mashed potatoes I had "fixed up" with such delicacies as Lawry's salt and garlic powder. Thankfully I grew up and found better food to feed my addiction. Creamy curries mixed with tantalizing and soul-satisfying spices, peaches fresh from the orchard that literally melt all the way down to your stomach, steak that is cooked to a medium rare perfection. Mmmm...mmm...mmm... I could go on about food, but I really want to talk about the trouble it has caused me so here goes.

First, as some kind of wicked karma for loving cookies, bread, cake, pie and all things gluten, I was stricken with Celiac Disease. Now, I'll be the first to say, if I must suffer with a chronic illness, Celiac is the one to have. Truly. You have to avoid all wheat, barley, rye and most oats, but if you do that successfully, you have no ill effects. However, slip up and watch out. Misery ensues. Abdominal pain, bloating, diarrhea, gas--and that is just the start. The reason you have those problems is that your little nutrient collecting villi in your intestines are becoming inflamed, flattened and generally ineffective. What does that mean? Malnutrition, osteoporosis, failure to thrive, infertility, and maybe even intestinal cancer. So, Like I said, follow the diet and you're fine.

We've adjusted to this problem fairly well. For example, I make a great gluten free pizza. This is a picture of one--I believe this was pesto, sun-dried tomato, artichoke heart and pepperoni. Delightful. Nice sturdy crust, great sauce, fabulous toppings. I heard at a convention that the food celiacs miss most is pizza--not in this house. I can also make killer cornmeal pancakes and better-than-wheat waffles that rival their gluten-loaded compadres. So, we have learned to cope with this cruel blow from the food gods. But I still sometimes have trouble--for example, I miss good bread. I can make GF bread, sure, but it won't ever be the same as a crunchy on the outside tender on the inside French baguette. I cannot make a GF replica of ciabatta rolls. It isn't really possible. Brioche has gone by the wayside along with croissant and eclairs. Good for the waistline, bad for my food addiction.

So, you might think that the loss of processed wheat would assist in ridding me of my addiction. It hasn't. I now have a problem with fresh produce. I love it. I love finding out about where things are grown and how they are grown. I want to know how to cook it and what to eat it with. You can sense some of my obsession from my other blog. It is an obsession for which I do not have time or energy, but as far as obsessions go, I could definately be worse off. Capital among all produce options are fresh peaches in the fall. Heaven. There is nothing to compare with a fresh peach at the peak of ripeness. The flavor, the melt in your mouth texture and nectar of the gods filling your mouth and throat with indescribable food bliss--truly there is nothing better. So, to keep my obsession fed through the winter, I started canning fresh produce. An archaic hobby with fairly negative connotations in the Mormon feminist community, but you cannot beat the results. I am now a snob about canned fruit. If it says Libby's Libby's Libby's on the label label label you won't find it anywhere near my table table table.

I was set this year to can with a good friend. Canning is always better with a good friend (well, as long as you know that that good friend is also a good canner) so I was looking forward to the whole experience. Boxes of perfectly ripe fruit placed in the very domestic Kerr jars and then finally processed and perfectly preserved. Well-canned fruit is truly a beauty to behold.

The whole story would take a blog in and of itself, but let me just say the friend thing fell through, my mother went overboard at the orchard, Dean and I ended up canning 128 quarts of peaches and 4 jars of Italian prunes (an experiment that failed) all alone (curse my mother and her extravagant fruit purchases), and an additional 48 quarts of pears, 21 quarts of tomatoes, and 36 quarts of applesauce which we worked on with Dean's parents who just called one day to say they were coming the next day to can along with us. (All of this while I had a 4-5 month old infant, was starting fall semester [aka HELL] at the BY, and was trying to get the kids on some kind of routine so they can get chores and school done all in one day). AND there are still four boxes of apples in my mother's garage just waiting to be bottled up and added to our food storage. Now, it is almost killing me to leave those apples there, rotting. But I refuse to enable her irresponsible produce purchases. Really. If she wants to buy them, she can bottle them, right? But then I feel guilty because she helps watch the kids and is so busy taking care of my grandfather and everything else... I'm sure I'll be making more applesauce soon so if you'd like some, let me know.

The last food trouble I'll add this evening is dairy. OK, not just dairy, but all food fat. Somehow in my twisted brain, I have decided that since I can't have bread I can justify having more of the other things I like that aren't good for me. Like cream. Heavy cream. I eat it on my oatmeal. True confession. OK, on my gluten-free oatmeal. With raspberries or blackberries out of my freezer. With brown sugar and maple syrup. Or, until lately, with fresh peaches. Wow, is that ever a good breakfast. But who can eat that everyday and live?

OK, I don't eat it everyday, I cook bacon and eggs some days, other days I add pancakes made out of rice flour, tapioca starch and cornstarch (and we all thought white wheat flour was empty, processed, killer carbs leading straight down the road to diabetes and heart disease). I slather those in butter and real maple syrup--extravagantly expensive, but I can't eat fake pancake syrup thanks to the barley malt flavoring (good excuse, eh?). OK, yes, you're right, someone with a love affair with produce must make healthy breakfasts sometimes...let's see...breakfast burritos with chorizo, refried beans, cheese, salsa and sour cream; no, GF waffles with home-cooked berry syrup and whipped cream; oh, oh, oh, yogurt parfaits with whole milk yogurt and sweetened fruit...See what I mean? Trouble. I run at least three miles a day and have managed to barely stay 10 pounds above my pre-pregnancy weight. I really don't want to think about my cholesterol tests this year. I just tell myself, I'm nursing a baby and the fat helps her brain grow. Yeah, that's it. I don't have a problem with food, I'm sacrificing for the good of my child. That's every mother's job, right?

Why you should NEVER eat maraschino cherries...

2007-10-01T22:01:00.000-07:00

I learned today why maraschino cherries are so disgusting. Let me first say that I have NEVER enjoyed maraschino cherries. "Why," I thought to myself, "would anyone purposefully do that to a cherry? I mean cherries are delicious little bits of heaven on earth and that is just...ugghh." Let's face it, you might as well top a desert with a piece of poo, and after this, you may agree with me.

My kiddies and I went on a field trip today to the Big Red Barn and Mountainland Apples in Santaquin. It was a lovely day. We rode a hayride through fruit orchards out to a pumpkin patch where the girls each carefully chose the perfect pumpkin to cut open, gut, and carve into disturbing shapes for All Hallow's Eve. And there was a cider doughnut thrown in to boot. But, I digress...

The first activity of the day was a short lecture about how the fruit is grown, harvested and picked. At the end of the cherry explanation, some woman raised her hand to asked how maraschino cherries are grown. Are grown?! Are you kidding me? She can't honestly believe those are grown! OK, well, technically, they are grown...but, I digress.

The farmer-turned-lecturer said, "Well, those ain't grown, they're made. We don't do that here...I can tell ya how those 'r made, but you ain't gonna wanna eat 'em after that." As if anyone in their right mind did want to eat them before that. Come on. I digress...

"Well, maraschino cherries are sweet cherries that are picked and then they are dumped into a vat of bleach. It's a brine, really, of bleach."

The woman: "Bleach? Isn't that toxic?"

Farmer/lecturer: "Well, yeah, I mean it is bleach. Sure it's toxic."

I knew there was something inherently dangerous about maraschino cherries.

"So, after they sit in the bleach fer a while, they get all white and lose all their flavor, 'cause they're bleached, y'know? Well, then they put 'em in another vat and cook 'em with high fructose corn syrup and color and flavor and stuff."

Gross.

"That's what a maraschino cherry is. We don't make 'em here."

Well hallelujah Mountainland! More power to you! Can you imagine my distress when I found online that many maraschino cherries are made from Queen Anne or Rainier cherries?! What?! Have you TASTED a Queen Anne or Rainier cherry?
And people (supposedly in their right minds) are taking those delectable morsels from heaven and bleaching them into a white NOTHING and then filling them with high fructose corn syrup, almond flavoring, and red #2?! What is wrong with these people? Honestly.

On the upside, The Big Red Barn and the Mountainland tour and hayride was a lovely diversion and the kids had a ball. But, I digress...

Maraschino cherries...not in MY pantry, and now--I hope--not in yours.

What have I done in the Last Year and a Half Anyway?

2007-08-07T19:37:00.001-07:00

I had another baby. A girl. On April 6, 2007. A significant day for those of us in the LDS Church. She was a healthy 9 lbs--I think--or close to that. I can't really remember, but give me a break it is number 5 OK. And all the pictures of the day she was born say it was January 1, 2005. Funny, huh? Not really. I hate those date stamps anyway, but I'm too behind on cataloguing pictures to remember the dates without them. Give me a break, I have 5 kids OK?

I got a new job at
the BY. I'm not just a part-time teacher anymore, I get to be the production dramaturgy supervisor--whoopee! So, my schedule is more flexible, I teach a bit less and get to direct. That all works for me! We'll ignore the fact that I know very very little about dramaturgy and just pretend that I am dramatically omniscient.

That's Maeve again. I like her.

She's a drooler-and she suffers from reflux which means she cries a lot and spits up a lot. But I still really like her. I want to run away with her to Ireland, but something keeps me here. Oh yeah, my four elder daughters and a loving husband.

Well, what else. My parents moved into my ward. Yep. Believe it or not they live a very few blocks away. And my grandfather lives with them.

He's cute, isn't he? He just turned 91 and is driving my 63 year old mother absolutely insane. Lots of funny stories about him. Here's one from the other night. I walk into the house and warm up dinner for my dad, take my nephew so dad can eat and I then sit and talk with "Gramps." Fast forward twenty-thirty minutes. Gramps looks at me. Long and hard. Then, "I thought you were Monica!" "This whole time?" "Yes, I just thought you were Monica." "Well, that's OK, Grandmother, I was mistaking you for Gramps!" He laughed so hard I thought he was going to die. Literally.

My older brother moved to Sandy and thanks to
IMPACT, has been clean and sober for several months-he's a delight to be with now. My younger brother moved to Heber City, just a hop skip and a jump up Provo Canyon from here. So I was basically descended upon by family. Like vultures to a warm and smelly carcass. I was not at all excited about this at first. But it has allowed us to have exciting family get-togethers like this
more often. (No, my mother's black eye was not the result of violence. Even in my most angry moments the most I've ever done is throw a fork at her--and that was the result of our discussion of the ridiculous movie Church Ball.)

My little sister is trying to get her PhD in Assyriology at the University of Chicago and she had a baby just a month before me. They named him Hunter. He's cute too, but not as beautiful as Maeve. See, here they are together.

Don't let the screaming fool you. She really is cuter. See how weird Hunter looks at times.

(That date stamp really is annoying--I have to take that off.) Hunter and his mother have also been here in Provo for the last month and will be here one or two months more before heading back to Chicago and a bit of a troubled marriage. We'll leave that story in the bag until we know more about how it ends. So we only lack my oldest sister to make it a whole Phillips family reunion here in Zion. Quite frankly, part of what made Utah palatable to me was that my nearest family member was approximately 500 miles away from me. But we are all surviving, nay, thriving in the lovely deseret.

Hmm, let's see. I directed a play. Was given a play to direct but begged out of it because I was pregnant and TOO STINKING TIRED! (Gimme a break-I had four kids and was pregnant for crying out loud!) I went to Young Women Camp once, then got kicked out of Young Women. Now I am a junior primary chorister and I find my guitar playing skills come in quite as handy there as they did at camp--more so, a lot more so.

Overall, it has been a good almost two years and I am ready to blog once again. Remember this is really my journal. I'm just following the counsel of prophets here.

I Came Back

2007-08-07T19:11:00.001-07:00

I took a break from blogging, but couldn't stay away. I'm up another child--a girl of course--with lots more stories to share. Enjoy.

Life

2005-11-28T18:39:00.000-08:00

Recently, my mother sent my 9-year-old daughter a copy of National Geographic. The cover story was something about the secrets of a long life. Maren asked me what the secrets of long life were and I suggested she read the magazine and let me know as soon as she found out. She returned later, showed me a picture of an ancient Japanese woman and said, “Mom, here’s the secret of a long life, this lady eats that slimy seaweed.”

“That’s the secret to a long life?”

“Yeah. And she squats a lot too.”

I recently had a friend call and ask me about my experience with cancer. She was looking for answers I didn’t have and comfort I could not give. We all face our mortality at some point. A friend’s spouse or child dies, a cousin is in an accident, a grandparent succumbs to a long illness, a sibling passes on…a parent…a child…a spouse…ourselves. It is all part and parcel of this experience called life, and it is for all a great unknown.

After speaking with my friend, I realized that I did learn a few things when I had cancer. Here are some of them.
1. Cancer is not nearly as scary as lots of people think.
2. People, anyone, can be here one day and gone the next.
3. Illness and death strike indiscriminately.
4. To sort of quote A.A. Milne, most of us are stronger than we think and braver than we feel.

I also learned that mortality is not a gift that keeps giving—it ends. I don’t know a lot, but I do know that each day is precious—really almost sacred. I know that when it comes down to it, I should get down and play Barbies (gag) with my daughters rather than grade the pile of papers on my desk, but I don’t. I know that I should tell my parents how much I appreciate the love and gifts they gave me rather than focus on the annoying habit my mom has developed of sending me enormous boxes of her old junk, but I don’t. I know I should treasure the time with my incredible spouse rather than nag about the two things he managed to not get accomplished while I was gone, but I don’t. I know that I should thank God for each precious moment here rather than complain about how tired I am of work, of kids, of laundry, of life…but I don’t.

There’s no secret to long life. We’re all going to have a long life. Every single person on earth will be raised to immortality. The question really is what will we do with our lives—mortal and immortal alike? What will our daily choices be and where will they lead? How will our priorities be reflected in the way we live, not just how long we live?

Personally, I’ve been reminded that it might not be so bad to eat slimy seaweed and squat a little more often. It may not lengthen my life, but it may help me slow down and make a difference with the time I have here. Especially if I do it with folks I love.

Packaging

2005-10-15T22:57:00.000-07:00

I have always hated exercise. Always. In elementary school, I cried when it was time for the Presidential Fitness testing hoo-ha. I thought running that mile was going to kill me. I begged to be exempted from it, or at least be allowed to just walk. When I found out that I had to go three miles if I was walking, I wanted to die. Literally. Lie down on the hot black asphalt track and die. Needless to say, I was always one of the biggest girls—check that—biggest kids in the class. Come on! I was big boned, for crying out loud. In any case, I was a large girl. 100 pounds in second grade. I know college students who still haven’t broken the century mark. I was always picked last for teams, I couldn’t learn how to do a cartwheel, I HATED gym class. In fact, for my two glorious years of high school, I became a cheerleader to avoid gym class. (At good old Battle Mountain, you were exempt from gym if you were on an athletic team or a cheerleader—clearly the team thing was too athletic for me so I opted for the sleazy cheer squad.) Do you understand? I hated gym, I hated sports, I hated exercise. Mostly because I was so bad at it that I consistently failed—and I, Allison Phillips, did not fail at anything.

You can then imagine my pride in saying that I now run three miles on a regular basis. Actually, I’m up to about 4.68 miles as registered on my treadmill. And I do some weight training—OK, so it is just The Firm, but it was dang hard when I started! And I have now come to some realizations about myself and my thoughts on weight and fitness.

1) Some of us are simply built like line-backers. No matter how much we run or sweat or work-out, we will always be fleshy. And I’m really OK with that.
2) After carrying and birthing 4 babies (large babies—8 ½-10 pounds) I will always have to fold my stomach up to tuck it into my pants. No matter how many sit-ups I do.
3) I feel the same whether I weigh 230 pounds or 175 pounds. I am the same person. It annoys me that people say, “Wow are you working out? You are really looking great!” What does that mean? Did I look like a piece of garbage before? If I slip back into old habits (which is fairly likely to happen depending on my pregnancy status and stress levels) am I going to look bad? Will people come up and start saying, “Wow. You must be eating a lot. Don’t you ever exercise? You look like garbage.” Guess what—whether I’m in better shape or worse shape, I am still me. Still Allison.
4) It annoys me that we as a society recognize that the media and pop culture have forced this unrealistic image of womanhood on us so that we never feel like we measure up and yet we continue to buy into it. See comment above. If we just saw people for who they were regardless of their body type or size we would be a lot better off. The comments I have received throughout my life from friends, family and others prove that we agree with Hollywood and everyone else. People look better and are more beautiful if they are thinner. Who wouldn’t want to take measures—physical, chemical, surgical—to increase the positive attention and comments they receive from others? If you have ever said to anyone, “Wow, are you losing weight, you look great,” you may be contributing to this societal problem. If you have never told a fat person that they are beautiful you ARE contributing. Example…my mother went through a horrible time psychologically a few years ago. She lost a ton of weight because she wasn’t eating. All she heard and all she believed was how great she was looking. She didn’t look great. She looked like a bag of skin and bones. Her head was too big for her body. But she was thinner and that is better, right?
5) See Elder Holland’s talk from the recent Conference of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Hallelujah, brother! Also see Susan Tanner’s talk. Amen, Sister!
6) I’ve noticed that when friends around me start getting into better shape, they have an increased desire to show off their newly toned bodies. Sleeves get shorter, shirts get tighter, necklines get lower. I wonder what their modesty motivation was before. Just that they looked horrible in those things pre-transformation? So, if you’ve got it, flaunt it? See above mentioned talks. Doesn’t seem to fit in exactly with revealed doctrine.

So, sorry to have such a beef about this, but it really bugs me. Maybe because weight has been an issue my whole life—and it shouldn’t have been. Maybe because I live in a family who all tie much of your personal worth and value to your waistline. Fatter people are worth less, skinnier people worth more. Maybe it is because I’ve had friends and family ravaged physically and mentally in their quest to be thin enough, beautiful enough, worthwhile enough. Maybe it is because I have three daughters who take after me and I am angry that they have to live in a culture, society, and family that tells them that they are not as beautiful as Sally down the street because they have linebackers for parents and she has waifs. I am sick of hearing, “My, she’s big for her age! Maybe she can be a basketball player.” Or, “Gracious she’s tall. You’d better get her right into volleyball!” Maybe she will be a basketball player, maybe she’d love volleyball, but if not does it really matter? Maybe she’ll be a great pianist—can we have great pianists who are big? Maybe she’ll be a loving wife and a mother. And maybe, just maybe, even though she’s “fat” by American standards, she’s a beloved and infinitely valued daughter of God regardless of what she does in this life.

Like a Cow

2005-09-13T18:36:00.000-07:00

My ten month old daughter Hattie is a great baby. Once we discovered her milk sensitivity and started her on soy formula, she transformed from a fussy, needy, screaming-through-the-night child into a little angel. Really. She is incredibly mild mannered and calm. And, if I do say so myself, darn cute.

Something Hattie does that I absolutely love is play independently. She plays in her crib in the morning when she gets up. She plays in her crib after her nap. She plays in her play pen while I work in the kitchen. She plays in her high chair while we have school. She is really great.

Dean and I listened via baby monitor to Hattie's happy babble and coos as she entertained herself one remarkably calm Saturday morning. I said to Dean, "This can't be as good as it seems. Sometime we're going to go up there and disaster will have struck. That or in 10 years they'll start diagnosing children with some disorder resulting from being left in their crib to play alone for more than 10 minutes at a time." He just laughed it off.

Well...

Today, I came home from work at the normal time. I was greeted by my three older girls happy to see Mom and finally able to dig into their dinner. (In case you don't know our family well, it may help to know at this point that I teach at a local university in the evening while the children bond with their father.) We came in and sat down to dinner and all was well. With the exception of her diaper, Hattie was completely naked in her high chair and loving it. I didn't think much of it really, since any two of my children could be found nearly naked and loving it at any given time.

We have a blessing and begin to eat.

"Hattie pooed everywhere today."

"What's that?"

"Oh, yeah, Mom. She got poo on everything."

Dean, who had left momentarily to retrieve some little thing, re-enters the room.

"Honey, did Hattie poo everywhere today?"

At this point I get the whole gruesome story. Hattie had taken her afternoon nap, very cooperatively, as she always does. She awoke and was playing happily upstairs. Apparently for a while. Maren, my oldest, finally convinced Dean to let her retrieve her baby sister. I was completely enthralled as the scene was described to me--at the dinner table--over a plate of lasagna.

"She had her diaper off, Mom, completely off! Can you believe that?"

"Yeah, and she had smeared her poo all over the place!"

I look at my sweet husband, "Everywhere?"

"Well, pretty much. All over her crib, up and down the rails, on the wall..."

"Uh-huh. And in her hands and on her face and in her teeth!"

I turn to Dean again, "In her teeth? She had poo in her teeth?"

"Well, I didn't actually see it in her teeth."

"It was, Mom, I saw it stuck in her teeth."

"That means she was like a cow and eating her own poop!"

I force myself to swallow the semi-warm lasagna I had just put in my mouth.

Indeed my prediction had come true. And if Hattie wasn't going to get a disorder from being left to play independently, she would now get some disease from being like a cow and eating her own poo. Maybe mad cow disease.

Generally, I am looking for any and everyway possible to spend more time at home with my kids, but after hearing about the poo-smeared walls and smelling her room even after it was cleaned up, I have to say this was one day I looked heavenward and said a little prayer of thanks that Dean was home that afternoon and I was teaching college students--with close to no chance of having to clean up their poo.

Shalom, Vail, and the Battle Born State

2005-07-31T00:53:00.000-07:00

The last three weeks of my life have been...OK...well a bit hellish to be frank. Not that there weren't things I thoroughly enjoyed, but...well perhaps you'll understand better if I explain.

First, there was Young Women camp. (Notice Kacy that it is Young Women camp, NOT girls' camp--let's be accurate shall we?) I have to say straight up that I love camp. I even learned to play the guitar just for camp this year. OK, well I've wanted to play guitar for a long time and camp was a good excuse to buy one. Anyway, I can play a mean guitar when it comes to camp songs. So we have camp and I'm a stake leader which means that I am responsible for some 270 girls at camp. Sort of. I mean there is a camp director, other stake leaders and the ward leaders, but we're talking about me here, aren't we. And my main responsibility to these young women and their reluctant but faithful leaders is the music. That was my committee, that's what I was over and it was going to be good.

Until someone lit a campfire. Then someone else lit another. And another. And so on until the air at Camp MIA Shalom was filled with smoke. Which apparently does not agree well with my vocal chords.

After one day, my voice was just sort of husky and sexy--a little Kathleen Turneresque. Dean sort of likes it when it does that. But it got worse. Before I knew it, I sounded like a lifetime smoker and that is never a good thing especially when trying to lead 300 young women and their leaders in song. By Friday night the voice was all but gone. It didn't help that I continued to thrash it in classic Allison Belnap style--after all I was in front of a LARGE group of people and I couldn't be expected to be silent. I squeezed every last sound out of those poor swollen chords and even wondered at times if my voice would ever return.

After camp, several of the ward evaluations mentioned that they'd like to know the tunes of songs ahead of time. Yeah, because that certainly couldn't get the tune from the crazy croaking crone with the guitar!

So much for my one big responsibility.

That was week one.

Immediately after camp, I had to drive to Colorado to pick up my kids. Well, three of my kids. Maren, Hollis, and Mandy were in Ft. Collins with my mom. The deal was that Dean and I would drive there together. Much to my chagrin, I found that rather than take advantage of the babysitting I had set up for the baby, Dean took the entire week of camp off to watch her himself. No more vacation time meant I was traveling alone with the baby to pick up the other three girls.

Well, at least I got to stay in a condo in Vail for three days, right?

I got to Vail, my mom was there, my dad was there, my older brother was there, my nephew Nicholas, my niece Katie and my three oldest girls were there, and my younger brother and his wife were on their way. Did I mention that this was a smallish three bedroom condo in Vail? Did I mention that I had just returned from camp where I slept on a wooden floor with a stinky air mattress that leaked air every night? Did I mention that I had just driven six hours with a crying infant who refused to sleep or take her bottle?

My mom informed me of the sleeping arrangements she had worked out. Jarrod and his kids upstairs in the loft bedroom. She and my dad in the master bedroom with the baby, Scott and Kristy in the other bedroom and me with my three children on the couches and the floor in the great room. I don't think so.

Scott and his lovely wife were quickly relegated to the couch and I nicely but firmly claimed a bed for myself. Unfortunately, I failed to realize that because of my absence, my children would now be bound to me--I mean physically bound with some kind of invisible binding material that won't allow them to be further than an arm's reach from me. When we finally retired for the evening, all three girlies insisted on cramming into a very small queen bed. It might help at this point for you to know that my children are not small. Needless to say, I added another sleepless night to the week at camp.

The stay in Vail was fine, and of course reminiscent, and mostly very enjoyable except that I got no sleep the next night either, I got left caring for all six kids and doing laundry (did I think this was a vacation? Silly me!) the last day there, and there was of course the drive home.

Let's just say four tired girls, one tired mom and the 450+ miles from Vail to Provo are not a very good combination. In Price I finally got everyone out and went into Wal-Mart to get us all calmed down a bit. I can't believe I just wrote that sentence, but that is what happened. The normally six hour trip stretched to more like seven and a half, but we did eventually make it.

That was week two.

Week three can pretty much be summed up by saying we went to Mesquite for the 4th of July. Who does that? Really smart folks like the Belnaps. I can't figure out how anything lives there let alone people. It was 113 degrees. That’s absurd! Suffice it to say that Dean's older brother had arrived before us and therefore got the only extra bed in the house. Which meant we were sleeping, yes, on the floor. Well, on an air mattress--a full sized air mattress--on the floor. Yeah, it leaked. And no, I didn't sleep.

That was week three.

I'm in recovery now, except that youth conference is around the corner and we’re going to a military camp on the side of a hot dusty mountain in Utah with tics and rattlesnakes.

Next summer I’m taking at least one real vacation.

Design Diva

2005-07-27T21:31:00.000-07:00

When I decided to finally take a step into the home improvement realm, I didn't think it would be that difficult. I mean, everybody does it so it can't be that hard--buy some paint, get some accessories, put it together, no big deal. Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.

Let me begin by saying it took me at least six months to decide the color paint I want. I finally choose a paint chip. It matches everything, it looks nice, it should be great. I pick up a quart of the paint at the home improvement store. Bring it home. Look at it. Perhaps my first clue should have been that I can't really even figure out how to open the thing. But I persist--I'm 32 years old for crying out loud and I CAN open a paint can. I paint a splotch on the wall. Mmm...hmmm. It looks sort of like yellow mud--that or baby poop. Definitely not what I wanted. I decide it might go better in the kitchen. I paint another splotch and sort of like it but need an expert's opinion so I call my friends Cynthia and Kelly over.

Cyn: "Wow. That's really peachy."

Me: "It isn't peach. It is creamy sort of yellowish. Kelly is that peachy?"

Kelly: "Ummm...(finger to her mouth--always a bad sign)...it is sort of peachy. Not necessarily in a bad way."

Me: "Come look at it in the kitchen. It is better in here, don't you think?"

Kelly: "You need to paint more on the wall. These swatches are too small."

On her advice I paint 2 foot square splotches on both walls. The verdict was still peach. I didn't see it. I strained and looked at those splotches for hours. I squinted, I tilted my head, didn't see peach. I sort of liked it. So I dove in.

Originally I was painting one wall. However, once that was done (the cutting in took me like 5 hours--that's how pitiful I am) I thought, "Wow. That is cool. There is color on a wall in my house. I'm going to decorate the whole downstairs and surprise Dean when he comes home!" (Note: Dean was in Mesquite with the two older kids, I still had the two youngest--yes, the three-year-old and the infant--the two that would really make painting a super smart activity.)

I can't just stay with the "peach" though. I need some sort of accent color. What else would go with the peachy yellow sort of mud color on the opposite wall but red?

I find a friend with leftover red paint so I take it--saves me 20 bucks right?

I get Mandy off with some friends to the zoo (THANK YOU DEBY!) and go to work.

After an entire day, I have managed to paint one coat in my kitchen and it looks horrendous. Awful. Like a giant red chicken came through vomiting uneven red paint along the way. To say I was discouraged would be an understatement.

Eventually I get the kids to bed and go to work again. I'm getting a little faster and caring a whole lot less about the increasing number of red splotches on the ceiling. It takes me until FOUR AM to complete 3 coats of the red and 2 coats of the peachy piece of heaven just in my kitchen. I have now written off doing the rest of the downstairs.

I call some friends and report my progress.

"So do you love it?"

"I don't know"

"What you mean?"

"I don't know. I don't do this and I don't know if I love it. It is a mess. There are messy lines on the ceiling, messy lines on our pain-in-the-butt round corners, messy lines around the doors... I don't hate it."

So I try to keep going but realize that I now have to hang things on the walls. I am completely paralyzed. I try to ignore the situation by working on stuff for youth conference, but I really can't just ignore the fact that the kitchen is completely a wreck--not to even mention the rest of the house--and my husband is going to be home in 5 hours.

I decide that I can't hang anything till I ahve everything that I want to hang and I have a few more things to buy first so I go shopping. With two children. One of whom has had no breakfast or lunch--only granola bars because her mother is quietly slipping into a panic.

We go to Wal-Mart where I run into about three people and enjoy conversations with each of them. The clock is ticking, the pressure is building.

We go to Bed, Bath, and Beyond--a store I really sort of dislike but that I know had the bottles I want. We make a potty break. I buy chocolate. The clock is ticking. The three-year-old starts crying.

We go to the craft store--they don't have the stuff I want and Mandy start screaming about painting a birdhouse. I try to ignore her wails but get lots of dirty looks. So I just pretend to be her aunt and act like I don't know what I'm doing.

We go to the copy center. The girl laminates my cool recipe system (I can tell ya'll about it later) and SCREWS IT UP! But most of it is salvagable. I curse Kinko's and get my starving child a Jamba Juice. If she is sucking on something, she can't scream anymore, right?

I finally go back home and look at what I have done. I feel like curling up in a ball and disappearing. Fortunately my friend Deby comes to the rescue again. She and her son arrive in the nick of time. He plays with Mandy, she takes Hattie, gives her a bottle and puts her to bed, and asks me what I need to do.

"Um, I don't know. Hang these trivet things I guess."

It takes her like two seconds.

"Now what?"

"Um, I think I can do the hardware. Can you hang the plates?"

"Sure."

She does it. Fast. Without a measuring tape or anything. And they look good.

"What else?"

I'm getting excited now.

"Well, the kids wanted these corkboards..."

Done.

"You know what, your Family Home Evening board would go great in here now. Should I get that?"

"Sure."

She gets it. She hangs it.

Meanwhile, I have drilled holes for about 24 knobs.

"Well, I have to go. Are you going to get done?"

I didn't know, but I felt more like I could now. I was invigorated. All I had left were drawer pulls and they couldn't be too hard.

Thank you thank you thank you, Deby!

Now, this blog has a really dumb ending because Dean drives up just as Deby is leaving which means that everything was not done. I still had drawer pulls to put on but he got the general picture.

The whole point is that now I really sort of do love my kitchen. It was possibly the most annoying and frustrating thing I have done in a long long time, but with help and encouragement from good friends, it came together OK and I really like it. I think Dean does too. I'm still trying to determine whether it was really worth it or not, but I do have a little sense of accomplishment and certainly have a deeper appreciation for you decorating fiends out there. Now if I could just get my drawer pulls on straight....Deby?

Fancy Hair

2005-07-08T10:47:00.000-07:00

I'm not a prude. I encourage modesty in all its forms, but here at home we're a little looser. Let me explain by saying I don't own a robe--at least not one that I slip into as I step out of my shower. The children are not banned from the bathroom or bedroom as I dress, and it may also help to know that my two older daughters were in the room when their younger sisters were born. (No I was not at home and yes I did use drugs--but that's another blog entirely.)

One morning a young (I mean maybe 3-4 years old) Maren was getting ready for her day next to me in the bathroom.

"Mom, you're so fancy."

"Well, thanks, Maren." I was intrigued, but didn't pursue.

"You and Daddy are both fancy. I wish I were fancy like you."

OK, I'll bite.

"What do you mean fancy?"

"You have such nice fancy hair."

Fancy has a whole new meaning in our house.

To Blog or not to Blog

2005-07-07T10:48:00.000-07:00

That really IS the question. When my friend Chris sent me a link to his blog, I had no idea what it even was. His invite was rather racy for a Mormon boy, "Oh my BLOG!". It clearly caught my interest right away and because I just love Chris so much, I of course had to check out what it was. I was enamored at first bite. How thrilling to post clever, interesting, funny things on a website and invite friends to partake of your wisdom and wit. Then, Chris' wife Lisa invited me to her blog--"Oh Judy!" What a beauty! I delved deeper into her blogs, relishing the comments and trying to figure out who the commenters were. C Jane Run and the like. So I followed the links to read C Jane's Blog. C Jane, I know who you are and you are a fabulous little writer, my friend. I have to admit, somewhat ashamedly, that I became a Blog voyeur. I read C Jane's blogs and went on to read the comments from HER friends and family. It seemed in a sense wrong, but I liked it.

So I was sucked into blogging, but promised myself that I would not create a blog of my own. After all, being a mother of four girls, teaching part-time and being in a Stake Young Women Presidency (you LDS folks know what I mean) doesn't leave much time for pontificating. I resisted temptation for a complete half hour, then succumbed.

I spent the rest of that day setting up my blog, getting a clever name (a gayle force--if you don't know the connection, ask me--I'll tell you), figuring out how to get my picture on the profile, writing and posting my first two blogs and then looking at my creation. It was thrilling and, I think, addictive. Just thinking about it makes my hands shake and sweat.

Then I sat there.

Do I tell anyone about it? No one would ever just find it. It could sit there in quiet anonymity; no one would have to know. It could be my secret indulgence. But that isn't really the spirit of blogging now is it?

So now, here you are. Glimpsing into my blog world. Now knowing that something makes me think that what I post here will be witty and enjoyable to perhaps some of you. I'll warn you now that most of my life is consumed with children--which involve a lot of poop, vomit, and discussions of body parts; but also many mercifully tender moments. Heaven forbid this could even be considered a form of a journal so I am justifying the whole thing by saying that I am more closely following the prophet's counsel. (Sorry--another LDS reference there.)

So, I suppose the answer for me at this moment is to blog. Definately to blog.

Enjoy.

It Isn't Just Decoration

2005-06-28T16:46:00.000-07:00

I have four daughters. My husband is the lone man in our home. While I was pregnant with our youngest, however, my other children were sure this would be their brother. They were busy coming up with boy names for the son they were confident would burst forth from my fertile womb in glorious male splendor.

The time for the all-telling ultrasound arrived. Of course all three girls as well as my husband squeezed themselves into the exam room and sat in breathless anticipation staring at the glowing screen in the quiet dark. Of course the baby wasn't cooperating and the tech was having difficulty getting a peek at the family jewels--or the lack thereof. Finally, after what seemed endless anticipation, he gave the verdict..."It's another girl."

You would have thought he had announced the end of the world. Maren--who was seven at the time--slumped into a chair and declared, "I'm not doing this anymore!" Which made me wonder what exactly she thought she was doing. I was the one who blew up to the size of a house, dealt with ankles and feet like an elephants, and thought my entire pelvic floor may give way at any moment. Not to be outdone, my six year old ran across the room screaming and hiding her face in the corner. "It can't be a girl! It CAN'T be a girl! I want a BROTHER!!!" All accompanied by weeping, wailing, and surely some gnashing of teeth.

At this moment it might be entertaining to imagine the technician's face as he witnessed this horrifying display of the drama that is a regular occurrence at our house. Keep in mind he himself was the father of six boys and may never have witnessed anything quite like this in his life.

Somehow we got everyone calmed down enough to get into the car and drive home, but the girls were not very happy about the whole thing. For months they insisted that I was having their long-awaited brother. One particularly hot afternoon, while driving about town running errands I finally had ENOUGH. Maren was indignant. "It is a boy, Mom! I know it!"

"IT is NOT a boy! SHE is a GIRL! We saw it on the ultrasound! There was NOTHING there!"

"Well, maybe it is just a boy and he is going to be born without a penis!"

That caught me off-guard a little, but not much. "It is not a boy without a penis, and trust me, you don't want to have a boy without a penis. A boy born without a penis would not be a good thing."

At which point, Hollis chimed in, "Yeah, Maren, those penis things are not just for decoration you know! That's where their hole for pee is."

Well, there you have it. Who can argue with that? Needless to say, the entire discussion ended there, mostly because I was in a fit of silent laughter.

That's one of my favorite sayings now--they're not just for decoration you know.

Sleepless with Children

2005-06-15T18:26:00.000-07:00

Two of my four daughters have difficulty sleeping in their own beds. Every night my six year old comes meandering into our room and crawls in between the two of us. This happens regardless of how close we might try to sleep together or how crowded we try to make our bed with pillows and blankets or how much we spread out our arms and legs in a valiant, but unsuccessful attempt to deter her. We've put up cots, laid out sleeping bags, imposed punishments and bribed her with whatever she wants in order to try to get her to sleep in her own bed. Nothing has worked. The other night, my husband said to her, "Hollis, are you just going to sleep with us forever?" To which Hollis promptly responded, "No, someday you'll die."

Needless to say, we're keeping Hollis' spot in the middle of the bed warm for her.