This is gonna be quick and dirty. The to do list is looming larger than my abilities and I've only given myself ten minutes at the computer, but I want to post about an issue.
I've been in a funk lately. I've been fairly unproductive, with less drive and determination (which means no pounds are leaving my hips and the wedding is only 30 days away! whimper!). The house is messier than average (which is saying something). The meals have been more junk food-ish. The projects I have started have been left half done. My visiting teaching needs a kick start. I've just felt thbthbbbt.
I know that the underlying problem is lack of seeking. You know the kind I mean. The real personal, soul-searching seeking that brings the Spirit into our lives.
In the rush of life, there have been more than the average days missed of scripture reading lately. When I do read, I tend to rush through and say to myself, "There, done with that!"
All this has added up to less joy and peace in my life and who needs that?!
This morning, I determined that it's time to quit going down that dead end road. As I said, my list right now is beyond me, but I put all of that aside. I spent a bit more time on my knees and when I got up, I grabbed, not just my scriptures, but my marking pencils as well. I read, pondered, flipped to cross references, marked and wondered in prayer as I went.
Wow! It's small and will need continued watering, but what a sweet little seed sprouted in my heart this morning!
I love the gospel!! It's such a happy thing in my life!
(and my ten minutes are up!)
Showing posts with label Musings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Musings. Show all posts
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Art thou stuffy?
As a child, I was taught that to show reverence and respect, the words thee and thou should be used in prayer, rather than you and yours. I accepted this and it has become my comfortable language of prayer.
It came as a sweet revelation to me when a few years ago I learned the proper usage of thee and thou. Contrary to the now widespread belief that thee and thou are stuffy and formal, the opposite is actually true. When those words were in the common vernacular, you and yours were also used. However, thee and thou were for addressing those closest to us, you and yours for stuffy, formal occasions and when speaking to those whom with you did not have an intimate relationship. In one of our family's favorite books set in the Appalachian mountains during the great depression, Grandpa properly expresses his love for Grandma with the words, "I kin ye, Bonnie Bee."
This past week, much of the world focused on England and we twice heard the words, "I pledge thee my troth." Of course the word thee was used. To say "I pledge you my troth" would imply that I'm marrying you, but I have no deeply held feeling for you and don't know you that well.
If Heavenly Father were an "unknown God", you and your would be sufficient. I think it's a beautiful thing that as we use the language of prayer, we are acknowledging and confirming our intimate relationship Him.
It came as a sweet revelation to me when a few years ago I learned the proper usage of thee and thou. Contrary to the now widespread belief that thee and thou are stuffy and formal, the opposite is actually true. When those words were in the common vernacular, you and yours were also used. However, thee and thou were for addressing those closest to us, you and yours for stuffy, formal occasions and when speaking to those whom with you did not have an intimate relationship. In one of our family's favorite books set in the Appalachian mountains during the great depression, Grandpa properly expresses his love for Grandma with the words, "I kin ye, Bonnie Bee."
This past week, much of the world focused on England and we twice heard the words, "I pledge thee my troth." Of course the word thee was used. To say "I pledge you my troth" would imply that I'm marrying you, but I have no deeply held feeling for you and don't know you that well.
If Heavenly Father were an "unknown God", you and your would be sufficient. I think it's a beautiful thing that as we use the language of prayer, we are acknowledging and confirming our intimate relationship Him.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Attitude Adjustment
As a child, I assumed that adults were finished, complete. Not a well thought out notion, but one that I nevertheless held. Thus, despite my forty plus years, the continual need for change and growth in my adult life is still a bit of a jolt (dumb, but true!).
Take housework for example. Here's my reality. It's been a major responsibility of mine for over 26 years, but I've don't like it, nor do I do it very well. My focus is on finishing so I can get on with the good parts of life. More often than I care to admit, I simply ignore much of the work and do the "fun" stuff.
It dawned on me a few months ago that this is a pitiful way to spend my life, dreading a major part of it. I firmly believe in the scriptural phrase: "men are that they might have joy". Hence, it follows that, because serving my family in this way is important, there is joy to be found in the actual doing of housework, not merely in the being done with it!
With this realization, I determined to change my attitude. It's been a two steps forward, one (or two) back kind of process. But gradually, I find myself occasionally enjoying tasks like emptying the dishwasher, folding a basket of laundry or sweeping the floor.
Did you catch that? I didn't say, not minding it too much (something I've experienced frequently), but literally enjoying the process of the previously viewed as mind-numbing tasks that are required in a home. I'm not there yet. But the progress sure feels good!
Monday, February 28, 2011
Ignoring the Ticker
See that ticker in the right hand corner? The one that says I'm three pounds into my second ten pound loss? Yup, it's a lie. It's was true when I last changed it, but not so much anymore! The ticker is supposed to help motivate me, but I only change it when I'm losing. When I'm gaining, I ignore it completely.
It's a fair mite off at the moment and that's why I'm going back to weight watchers in the morning. Yup, apparently, I'm back at a place in my life where I need to pay someone and step on the scales for a total stranger in order to keep myself accountable in the eating department. Pitiful, but what ya gonna do?
I'm actually pretty excited. My friend who is deaf is joining with me. I get to interpret the class for her and we'll try to motivate each other. I'm not a licensed interpreter, just a friend who tries to sign, but I LOVE it! Interpreting for her will be a fun challenge (I'm pretty good at church words, but weight loss words, not so much.)
Hopefully, I'll be able to make myself change the ticker to reflect reality soon, but until then, you can find me at weight watchers every week. A bit poorer, and slightly more svelte.
It's a fair mite off at the moment and that's why I'm going back to weight watchers in the morning. Yup, apparently, I'm back at a place in my life where I need to pay someone and step on the scales for a total stranger in order to keep myself accountable in the eating department. Pitiful, but what ya gonna do?
I'm actually pretty excited. My friend who is deaf is joining with me. I get to interpret the class for her and we'll try to motivate each other. I'm not a licensed interpreter, just a friend who tries to sign, but I LOVE it! Interpreting for her will be a fun challenge (I'm pretty good at church words, but weight loss words, not so much.)
Hopefully, I'll be able to make myself change the ticker to reflect reality soon, but until then, you can find me at weight watchers every week. A bit poorer, and slightly more svelte.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Gasp! Are you a Utah Mormon?
Although I now live in the midwest, I'm a Utah Mormon. Born there, raised there, lived there for the first thirty-five years of my life. Growing up I would occasionally hear comments about church members outside of Utah (you know, in the mission field! Ooo, exotic!).
After moving to the midwest, I began to notice occasional remarks about Utah Mormons. Probably no more than I'd heard about saints in the "mission field", but being a Utah Mormon, I paid more attention.
For example, not long after my move to the midwest, a truly sweet lady told me she'd heard that Mormons in Utah don't even DO their visiting teaching! She was aghast and wondered if it was really true. It was after that conversation that I began to think in earnest about the issue and pay attention to the stereotypes.
My conclusion, after exhaustive research and study (okay, after mulling the issue over for some time) is that saints are the same regardless of where you live. Shrewd , huh?
In every ward I've lived there have been three types of people. These are my classifications, and may be lacking. If you disagree, write your own post! (Or comment on mine) The following will surely seem judgemental, and probably is. It should also be noted that the classifications are not strict divisions, but more like markers on a continuum. There may be more members between the classifications than actually in them.
People in all three groups attend church meetings on a regular basis, and, I would assume, have testimonies of the gospel.
Here are the three categories:
1. High yield, low maintenance saints (I stole this phrase from a conference talk, but can't remember who said it. My vague memory is that it was Elder Maxwell, but I didn't bother to look it up). From my experience, every ward, whether inside of Utah or out, has a core of workhorse members. Those that give in abundance (at least of their time, and talents, I've never been privy to tithing receipts) and ask for little if anything in return. They work through all but the biggest of their own trials without thinking of asking the ward for help. They are the ones who step up and act when others have a need, accept whatever callings come their way and serve without fanfare. That their testimonies are deep and abiding is evidenced by the way they live quiet lives of service.
2. Luke warmish saints. These are members who, though active, can't necessarily be counted on to follow through when it comes to service. They serve well and lovingly at times, but frequently aren't willing to put forth the effort. (As I write this, my lack of visiting teaching so far this month nags at my conscience). I've known more than one person who started out luke warm and ended up being high yield, low maintenance.
3. High maintenance, low yield saints (reversed the phrase from the conference all by myself!) These are ward members that are repeatedly in need and tend to loudly make their needs known while expecting a crew to come and get them out of their fix. They infrequently are on the giving end of service, but expect to be on the recieving end on a continual basis. I'm not talking about hard working families that have fallen on hard times and, while doing all they can, still need help. These are saints who expect others to do the heavy lifting whenever they're in a bind. I'm happy to say that this group is the smallest of the three.
I've lived in ten wards and each has had individuals running the entire spectrum. I believe that all three groups are necessary. We learn and grow as we interact with each other. And interacting with whiners in a Christ-like manner helps us grow in ways that interacting with fab, fun, folk simply doesn't.
Give me your thoughts. Do you think people are different inside and outside of Mormondom?
After moving to the midwest, I began to notice occasional remarks about Utah Mormons. Probably no more than I'd heard about saints in the "mission field", but being a Utah Mormon, I paid more attention.
For example, not long after my move to the midwest, a truly sweet lady told me she'd heard that Mormons in Utah don't even DO their visiting teaching! She was aghast and wondered if it was really true. It was after that conversation that I began to think in earnest about the issue and pay attention to the stereotypes.
My conclusion, after exhaustive research and study (okay, after mulling the issue over for some time) is that saints are the same regardless of where you live. Shrewd , huh?
In every ward I've lived there have been three types of people. These are my classifications, and may be lacking. If you disagree, write your own post! (Or comment on mine) The following will surely seem judgemental, and probably is. It should also be noted that the classifications are not strict divisions, but more like markers on a continuum. There may be more members between the classifications than actually in them.
People in all three groups attend church meetings on a regular basis, and, I would assume, have testimonies of the gospel.
Here are the three categories:
1. High yield, low maintenance saints (I stole this phrase from a conference talk, but can't remember who said it. My vague memory is that it was Elder Maxwell, but I didn't bother to look it up). From my experience, every ward, whether inside of Utah or out, has a core of workhorse members. Those that give in abundance (at least of their time, and talents, I've never been privy to tithing receipts) and ask for little if anything in return. They work through all but the biggest of their own trials without thinking of asking the ward for help. They are the ones who step up and act when others have a need, accept whatever callings come their way and serve without fanfare. That their testimonies are deep and abiding is evidenced by the way they live quiet lives of service.
2. Luke warmish saints. These are members who, though active, can't necessarily be counted on to follow through when it comes to service. They serve well and lovingly at times, but frequently aren't willing to put forth the effort. (As I write this, my lack of visiting teaching so far this month nags at my conscience). I've known more than one person who started out luke warm and ended up being high yield, low maintenance.
3. High maintenance, low yield saints (reversed the phrase from the conference all by myself!) These are ward members that are repeatedly in need and tend to loudly make their needs known while expecting a crew to come and get them out of their fix. They infrequently are on the giving end of service, but expect to be on the recieving end on a continual basis. I'm not talking about hard working families that have fallen on hard times and, while doing all they can, still need help. These are saints who expect others to do the heavy lifting whenever they're in a bind. I'm happy to say that this group is the smallest of the three.
I've lived in ten wards and each has had individuals running the entire spectrum. I believe that all three groups are necessary. We learn and grow as we interact with each other. And interacting with whiners in a Christ-like manner helps us grow in ways that interacting with fab, fun, folk simply doesn't.
Give me your thoughts. Do you think people are different inside and outside of Mormondom?
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
I'm Afraid not
I don't have as much patience as I should for my children's irrational fears. The there's-a-monster-under-my-bed kind of fears that have no basis in reality. Oh, I'm patient and understanding and helpful up to a point, and then I'm done and just want them to stop being scared!
This is unfair and hypocritical of me because as a child, I was a mass of fears. My mother truly wondered if I'd grow up to be a functioning member of society, so riddled was I with debilitating phobias. A sick feeling in the pit of my stomach was my almost ever present companion through approximately the third grade. My trepidations were wide and varied.
Here are three of the many.
I was terrified of dogs. There was nothing rational about this fear. I don't believe I've ever been bitten by a dog. But, nevertheless, my fear of them was primal and relentless. No amount of reasoning, coaxing, bribing or teaching on my parents part could make a dent in my insurmountable anxiety over all things canine. Big slobbery dogs, little yappy dogs, the size didn't matter, they all scared me to death. We owned a dog and it was the only fido on the planet that didn't send me screaming in the opposite direction. It took middle school years and the embarrassment of showing obvious fear in front of friends to curb my dog woes. I'll never be a pooch lover, but unless they're ferocious, I'm no longer alarmed by them.
My next fear was the worry of being permanently separated from my parents. Every Wednesday, after school, I watched my bus pull away without me and waited for my mom to pick me up and take me to dance lessons. I vividly remember, week after week, sitting alone on the bench in front of the school drenched in misery, knowing I might never see my parents again and contemplating the wretchedness my life would become. Mom always came, of course, but I still worried every week. Age fixed this one too, but not before years of torment at it's hands.
My third fear, was short lived, but the most debilitating. At age five-ish, I was taught in church that Satan wanted every one of us. What a horrific thought! I was just a little girl. What chance did I have against the devil? If he wanted me, I was doomed! Period. My mom repeatedly spent time trying to reassure me, teach me, and help me cope. But nothing she said made any difference. I spent my days and nights gripped in continual fear that it was only a matter of time before the Devil had me in his impervious grasp. She persisted and eventually got it through my head that obedience to God diminished Satan's power over me. That he could only have power over me as I gave it to him through committing sin. What a relief, and an incredibly useful piece of information! I was empowered! I may have been small and wimpy, but obedience I could DO; and, thankfully, my distress over the Prince of Darkness became thing of the past.
I don't know the reasons behind my abundance of fears as a child. I came from a wonderful home. My mom was the type that played with me, read to me, sang to me, snuggled with me and laughed with me every single day. I have always been absolutely secure in her love for me. Dad was less hands on, but I knew that he loved me and would always protected me from harm. And yet, my life, until I was nine-ish was a mass of phobias.
I don't quite understand how my mother managed to be patient with me and my constant worrying, but she did. And so the next time my six year old is frightened over something unrealistic. I'm gonna follow Mom's example and hang on to understanding a bit longer.
This is unfair and hypocritical of me because as a child, I was a mass of fears. My mother truly wondered if I'd grow up to be a functioning member of society, so riddled was I with debilitating phobias. A sick feeling in the pit of my stomach was my almost ever present companion through approximately the third grade. My trepidations were wide and varied.
Here are three of the many.
I was terrified of dogs. There was nothing rational about this fear. I don't believe I've ever been bitten by a dog. But, nevertheless, my fear of them was primal and relentless. No amount of reasoning, coaxing, bribing or teaching on my parents part could make a dent in my insurmountable anxiety over all things canine. Big slobbery dogs, little yappy dogs, the size didn't matter, they all scared me to death. We owned a dog and it was the only fido on the planet that didn't send me screaming in the opposite direction. It took middle school years and the embarrassment of showing obvious fear in front of friends to curb my dog woes. I'll never be a pooch lover, but unless they're ferocious, I'm no longer alarmed by them.
My next fear was the worry of being permanently separated from my parents. Every Wednesday, after school, I watched my bus pull away without me and waited for my mom to pick me up and take me to dance lessons. I vividly remember, week after week, sitting alone on the bench in front of the school drenched in misery, knowing I might never see my parents again and contemplating the wretchedness my life would become. Mom always came, of course, but I still worried every week. Age fixed this one too, but not before years of torment at it's hands.
My third fear, was short lived, but the most debilitating. At age five-ish, I was taught in church that Satan wanted every one of us. What a horrific thought! I was just a little girl. What chance did I have against the devil? If he wanted me, I was doomed! Period. My mom repeatedly spent time trying to reassure me, teach me, and help me cope. But nothing she said made any difference. I spent my days and nights gripped in continual fear that it was only a matter of time before the Devil had me in his impervious grasp. She persisted and eventually got it through my head that obedience to God diminished Satan's power over me. That he could only have power over me as I gave it to him through committing sin. What a relief, and an incredibly useful piece of information! I was empowered! I may have been small and wimpy, but obedience I could DO; and, thankfully, my distress over the Prince of Darkness became thing of the past.
I don't know the reasons behind my abundance of fears as a child. I came from a wonderful home. My mom was the type that played with me, read to me, sang to me, snuggled with me and laughed with me every single day. I have always been absolutely secure in her love for me. Dad was less hands on, but I knew that he loved me and would always protected me from harm. And yet, my life, until I was nine-ish was a mass of phobias.
I don't quite understand how my mother managed to be patient with me and my constant worrying, but she did. And so the next time my six year old is frightened over something unrealistic. I'm gonna follow Mom's example and hang on to understanding a bit longer.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
I'm back?
Wow, it's been a LONG time since I posted. It feels like I don't know how to anymore and I admit to a bit of apprehension about the whole thing. I don't have much to say, but figured I'd better jump in, or I'd never start posting again.
Some random thoughts:
Having your dad, who spent his whole life doing manly things: building, hunting, bee keeping, entreprenuering, raising pigs, fixing stuff etc, knit hats for your whole family makes me happy. And nice ones at that--have you ever seen better pom poms?
Some random thoughts:
Having your dad, who spent his whole life doing manly things: building, hunting, bee keeping, entreprenuering, raising pigs, fixing stuff etc, knit hats for your whole family makes me happy. And nice ones at that--have you ever seen better pom poms?
My only brother, still one of my hero's, his sweet wife and their youngest, a college freshman soon headed for the mission field, came and spent a few days with us. We laughed and played and caught up. They made us two fabulous dinners. My daughters came to passionately adore their uncle again (it's been a while). And they left a wad of cash to say thanks and pay for me to enter the triathlon again this year. When I talked to my big Bro on the phone, he said that the Lord had been very good to his family this year and that we saved them some money by letting them stay so he wanted to say thanks. How sweet is that? So, I'm DEFINITELY doing the triathlon again and I'll be thinking of my family in Texas as I train and compete.
Unlike Denae, I didn't make any fudge the whole Christmas season (however, my mom made some that I partook liberally of). But yesterday, because I had to take something to the chocolate party my sign language class was having, and because my fudge recipe literally only takes three minutes to prepare (and it's the smooooooothest fudge on the planet), I made fudge. Oh, wow! It's a good thing I didn't make it before now! I'm very determined to eat less and exercise more, so I've been able to limit myself to a few well savored pieces. Had I made it during the holidays, when the only rule I had about eating was that I had to keep one foot on the floor at all times, my five pound holiday gain would have been at least double.
Foolproof Fudge recipe: In the microwave, melt one and a half pkgs of chocolate chips with one can sweetened condensed milk (a minute at a time, stirring in between minutes). Stir in a dash of salt and 1 tsp vanilla. Pour into pan lined with wax paper. Cool, cut and binge!
Heavy sigh of contentment because life is good, my husband is even better and the gospel makes me happy!
And now an arrrrgggh moment! It doesn't matter how many times I try to fix it, the post will not keep a blank line between each of the last three paragraphs. What's up with THAT? (Of course, now that I've made it part of my post, I'm sure the blank lines will be there)
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Thankful
I came back from a run this morning, tired, stiff, stinky, and cold. Lot's to do today and so I jumped in the shower.
As I washed away the grime, I took a moment to savor. The hot water relaxing my tired muscles, the smell of my Refreshing Tangerine shampoo (Suave. I'm very high end), the water enveloping me in warmth and chasing away the chill.
There...is...nothing...like...a...hot...shower. Nothing. And I realized how rare a thing I was experiencing. Showers are so commonplace for us that we don't give them a thought. For most of man's history, however, turning a knob and standing under hot running water was not only an impossibility, it was simply unimaginable. Even today, there are millions of people who will never know the joy of of standing under a steady spray of warm water.
And so, in this month of gratitude, I am grateful for my shower. Amongst the hard water deposits and clutter of bottles, it's a beautiful thing.
As I washed away the grime, I took a moment to savor. The hot water relaxing my tired muscles, the smell of my Refreshing Tangerine shampoo (Suave. I'm very high end), the water enveloping me in warmth and chasing away the chill.
There...is...nothing...like...a...hot...shower. Nothing. And I realized how rare a thing I was experiencing. Showers are so commonplace for us that we don't give them a thought. For most of man's history, however, turning a knob and standing under hot running water was not only an impossibility, it was simply unimaginable. Even today, there are millions of people who will never know the joy of of standing under a steady spray of warm water.
And so, in this month of gratitude, I am grateful for my shower. Amongst the hard water deposits and clutter of bottles, it's a beautiful thing.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Chubby
I'm a victim of an over zealous love for food, and it's starting to show. My spare tire is growing and I'm not going to buy any bigger size clothing. Something's gotta give!
I know how to lose weight, done it before--sixty pounds even. Thirty of it found me again, pretty depressing, but I keep reminding myself that thirty of those pounds have been gone for four years now, better than nothing!
Here's the game plan: Keep a food journal (yuck!), exercise daily (I like this one, but that doesn't mean I'm doing it often enough), find substitutes foods that satisfy my cravings but are kinder to my fat stores than the ones I am currently consuming (this one takes time and energy and who has THAT?), assert portion control (chortle!!), and quit grazing in the kitchen (yeah, right!).
I want to lose weight, to fit better into my clothes, to stop catching glimpses of myself in mirrors and thinking, "Who is that fat lady?" But I don't want it enough right now. I can't seem to summon up enough self control to do the right things for longer than a day or two (okay, so maybe it's actually more like an hour or two). Whimper.
When things are not going well, we have two choices, we can get discouraged, or we can get determined. That's what my weight watcher leader taught me. But I've chosen a third option. I'm ignoring it all while I eat few more pieces of Halloween candy.
Can someone please fedex me some will power?
I know how to lose weight, done it before--sixty pounds even. Thirty of it found me again, pretty depressing, but I keep reminding myself that thirty of those pounds have been gone for four years now, better than nothing!
Here's the game plan: Keep a food journal (yuck!), exercise daily (I like this one, but that doesn't mean I'm doing it often enough), find substitutes foods that satisfy my cravings but are kinder to my fat stores than the ones I am currently consuming (this one takes time and energy and who has THAT?), assert portion control (chortle!!), and quit grazing in the kitchen (yeah, right!).
I want to lose weight, to fit better into my clothes, to stop catching glimpses of myself in mirrors and thinking, "Who is that fat lady?" But I don't want it enough right now. I can't seem to summon up enough self control to do the right things for longer than a day or two (okay, so maybe it's actually more like an hour or two). Whimper.
When things are not going well, we have two choices, we can get discouraged, or we can get determined. That's what my weight watcher leader taught me. But I've chosen a third option. I'm ignoring it all while I eat few more pieces of Halloween candy.
Can someone please fedex me some will power?
Thursday, September 17, 2009
I forget!
I am no longer what could truthfully be termed young. The evidence has been mounting for quite some time now and has become increasingly difficult to ignore.
For example: Gray hairs are much more plentiful than previously in my mop of once nicely brown tresses. My first steps out of bed each morning have become a hobble to the bathroom. Opening a jar or turning a steering wheel occasionally causes breath-takingly sharp pains in the joints of my hands. And, I now frequently have to move a book farther from my face in order to get the words into focus, a very annoying development! I can no longer ignore all of these signs clearly indicating that age is creeping upon me at a steady pace.
Don't get me wrong, there are wonderful things about growing older. I'm much more comfortable in my own skin than when I was a mere 20-ish. I stress less over the small stuff. I understand my own strengths and weakness more clearly and thus am better equipped to deal with the stuff that happens in life. Twenty-four plus years of marriage to the same guy has too many benefits to list in this post, but suffice to say that it's a very good thing. There's definitely an upside to it all.
I was raised by a father who clearly enjoyed the process of growing older. Age has never bothered him and although my mom has been mostly silent on the issue, she seems to feel much the same; no lamenting the loss of youth and the effects of advancing years. My parents passed that attitude on to me. Thus, I have never had any problem telling others my age and birthdays ending in zero don't dismay me in the least.
However, there is one side effect of having a substantial number of years under my belt that truly drives me nuts! It's the horrific lack of memory!!! If you've given birth, you've experienced it during pregnancy and know what I'm talking about. However, I can no longer blame this sad malady on gestation and, worse, I can't even comfort myself by pretending that it's going to get better after the delivery! It's here to stay along with all the drawbacks that come with chronic forgetfulness!!! Thank heaven for forgiving family and friends!
I've tried herbal remedies purported to boost memory, but forget to take them much too often to ever ascertain whether or not they are at all helpful. I write notes to myself as reminders of things and then promptly lose them never to be seen again (okay, I do eventually find them, long after they are no longer relevant!) And I write appointments on my calendar that I forget to look at. There are myriad ways that this lack of memory negatively affects my little world and all of them are embarrassing and stressful!
I'm truly quite comfortable with most of the signs of my not-too-far distant old age. Grey hairs? Bring 'em on! Slower pace? I'm ready! Hairier self? I've got good tweezers (though, sadly, no cilia forceps. I didn't win InkMom's contest!). Failing vision? My glasses are stylin! It's all good except that I'm more forgetful than a baby whose yet to develop that whole object permanence thing!
I don't have anything profound or particularly interesting to say about the whole issue, just aaaarrrrgghhh!
For example: Gray hairs are much more plentiful than previously in my mop of once nicely brown tresses. My first steps out of bed each morning have become a hobble to the bathroom. Opening a jar or turning a steering wheel occasionally causes breath-takingly sharp pains in the joints of my hands. And, I now frequently have to move a book farther from my face in order to get the words into focus, a very annoying development! I can no longer ignore all of these signs clearly indicating that age is creeping upon me at a steady pace.
Don't get me wrong, there are wonderful things about growing older. I'm much more comfortable in my own skin than when I was a mere 20-ish. I stress less over the small stuff. I understand my own strengths and weakness more clearly and thus am better equipped to deal with the stuff that happens in life. Twenty-four plus years of marriage to the same guy has too many benefits to list in this post, but suffice to say that it's a very good thing. There's definitely an upside to it all.
I was raised by a father who clearly enjoyed the process of growing older. Age has never bothered him and although my mom has been mostly silent on the issue, she seems to feel much the same; no lamenting the loss of youth and the effects of advancing years. My parents passed that attitude on to me. Thus, I have never had any problem telling others my age and birthdays ending in zero don't dismay me in the least.
However, there is one side effect of having a substantial number of years under my belt that truly drives me nuts! It's the horrific lack of memory!!! If you've given birth, you've experienced it during pregnancy and know what I'm talking about. However, I can no longer blame this sad malady on gestation and, worse, I can't even comfort myself by pretending that it's going to get better after the delivery! It's here to stay along with all the drawbacks that come with chronic forgetfulness!!! Thank heaven for forgiving family and friends!
I've tried herbal remedies purported to boost memory, but forget to take them much too often to ever ascertain whether or not they are at all helpful. I write notes to myself as reminders of things and then promptly lose them never to be seen again (okay, I do eventually find them, long after they are no longer relevant!) And I write appointments on my calendar that I forget to look at. There are myriad ways that this lack of memory negatively affects my little world and all of them are embarrassing and stressful!
I'm truly quite comfortable with most of the signs of my not-too-far distant old age. Grey hairs? Bring 'em on! Slower pace? I'm ready! Hairier self? I've got good tweezers (though, sadly, no cilia forceps. I didn't win InkMom's contest!). Failing vision? My glasses are stylin! It's all good except that I'm more forgetful than a baby whose yet to develop that whole object permanence thing!
I don't have anything profound or particularly interesting to say about the whole issue, just aaaarrrrgghhh!
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Sisters!
Do you remember the song from the movie White Christmas? The way Rosemary Clooney's voice slides into the notes? Love it!
I have lived far, far away from my sisters and any and all family for nine years now. Count them, 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9 years. That's huge!!! (at least to me).
Before we moved to the midwest, we lived two blocks from my mom (my children could literally walk to grandma's and pick apples off her tree!) and 10 minutes by car from my in-laws. One sister lived twenty minutes in one direction, another 30 minutes in the other. Most of Hubders family was within 20-ish minutes too. Family was everywhere. Anytime you needed somone to watch your kids, help out with --whatever--you know, the kinds of things that you need help with and can't ask anyone but family, they were there, always. Multiples of them and you could always count on a helping hand, more food than you should eat, a laugh or two and a sympathetic ear. I've missed that!
I love the Midwest. Love the green, love the friendly atmosphere, love the common sense outlook, love the spring and falls (the summers and winters--not so much, but that's another post), love the fact that my children have dear friends from different religions and races, and most of all, love the people! My only real beef with where I live is that my family is NOT here.
Most of the time, I don't really think about it and it's bearable. But occasionally, especially holidays and General Conference, when you know exactly where they all are and what they're all doing, and you're not there, it hits me with an ache that almost overwhelms me.
We've made multiple attempts to get Hubder's employer to move us back to Utah, but don't have any hope of it happening anytime in the near future. So, I try not to think about how extended family-less I am and enjoy the things I love here. Because they're truly legion. Really, I don't want any of my Midwest friends to get the idea that we don't just love living here. Because we do.
I'm sure I've mentioned that one of my six sisters moved here this summer (yup! I'm one of seven sisters--and we all have exactly one brother--a really great brother!). She's only one sibling from a large family, but can I just say how NICE it is to have some family around again!!! Our kids think it's the coolest thing on the planet just to hang out at each others houses. Labor day, we got together with family!!! It was such a novelty!!! My sis and I chat, and learn sign language together and share recipes, and books, and crafty and bloggy things.
Now, I have some really wonderful friends here, friends that would literally do anything for my family. But, I'm so hesitant to ask. Maybe I shouldn't be, but it's just the way I am. And so, for the past nine years, anytime I've needed someone to watch preschoolers in the middle of the day, when we have to go out of town for a couple of days, or we need some help with a panic/semi-emergency, I've asked. But I've always felt uncomfortable and a little bit guilty. Yes, I've returned the favor and all, but still, I'm very reticent to request friend's time and energy to help me in my little life.
Enter, my sis who just moved here. It's pure bliss!!! Somehow, it's completely different when it's actual family! I don't hesitate, even when it's last minute and maybe not even nice to ask. I know that if there's any way she can do it, she will. If it won't work for her, she'll say so. And I know that she'll ask me back whenever the need arises and I'll tell her yes, or no depending on my own life and it'll all be good!
I didn't even realize how much I missed that easy give and take in a big extended family, until I got a smidge of it back in the form of my sis.
So, this post is dedicated to Laree, my MUCH younger, (I'm almost old enough to be her Mom!), fellow bloggin, joy to talk to, fabulous Mommy, brought something really sweet and important to me back into my life, sister.
I have lived far, far away from my sisters and any and all family for nine years now. Count them, 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9 years. That's huge!!! (at least to me).
Before we moved to the midwest, we lived two blocks from my mom (my children could literally walk to grandma's and pick apples off her tree!) and 10 minutes by car from my in-laws. One sister lived twenty minutes in one direction, another 30 minutes in the other. Most of Hubders family was within 20-ish minutes too. Family was everywhere. Anytime you needed somone to watch your kids, help out with --whatever--you know, the kinds of things that you need help with and can't ask anyone but family, they were there, always. Multiples of them and you could always count on a helping hand, more food than you should eat, a laugh or two and a sympathetic ear. I've missed that!
I love the Midwest. Love the green, love the friendly atmosphere, love the common sense outlook, love the spring and falls (the summers and winters--not so much, but that's another post), love the fact that my children have dear friends from different religions and races, and most of all, love the people! My only real beef with where I live is that my family is NOT here.
Most of the time, I don't really think about it and it's bearable. But occasionally, especially holidays and General Conference, when you know exactly where they all are and what they're all doing, and you're not there, it hits me with an ache that almost overwhelms me.
We've made multiple attempts to get Hubder's employer to move us back to Utah, but don't have any hope of it happening anytime in the near future. So, I try not to think about how extended family-less I am and enjoy the things I love here. Because they're truly legion. Really, I don't want any of my Midwest friends to get the idea that we don't just love living here. Because we do.
I'm sure I've mentioned that one of my six sisters moved here this summer (yup! I'm one of seven sisters--and we all have exactly one brother--a really great brother!). She's only one sibling from a large family, but can I just say how NICE it is to have some family around again!!! Our kids think it's the coolest thing on the planet just to hang out at each others houses. Labor day, we got together with family!!! It was such a novelty!!! My sis and I chat, and learn sign language together and share recipes, and books, and crafty and bloggy things.
Now, I have some really wonderful friends here, friends that would literally do anything for my family. But, I'm so hesitant to ask. Maybe I shouldn't be, but it's just the way I am. And so, for the past nine years, anytime I've needed someone to watch preschoolers in the middle of the day, when we have to go out of town for a couple of days, or we need some help with a panic/semi-emergency, I've asked. But I've always felt uncomfortable and a little bit guilty. Yes, I've returned the favor and all, but still, I'm very reticent to request friend's time and energy to help me in my little life.
Enter, my sis who just moved here. It's pure bliss!!! Somehow, it's completely different when it's actual family! I don't hesitate, even when it's last minute and maybe not even nice to ask. I know that if there's any way she can do it, she will. If it won't work for her, she'll say so. And I know that she'll ask me back whenever the need arises and I'll tell her yes, or no depending on my own life and it'll all be good!
I didn't even realize how much I missed that easy give and take in a big extended family, until I got a smidge of it back in the form of my sis.
So, this post is dedicated to Laree, my MUCH younger, (I'm almost old enough to be her Mom!), fellow bloggin, joy to talk to, fabulous Mommy, brought something really sweet and important to me back into my life, sister.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
My Chosen Career
Years ago, early in my marriage, I was smack dab in the middle of babydom. My boys were 3 and 2 and I was a couple of months from the birth of my first daughter. I'd wanted this, prayed for this, hoped for this, and now that I had it, it was, well...tough. I'd had four very young sisters when I'd knelt across the altar from Hubders and so I knew that little ones were relentless. But I'd been the helper, the sitter, someone to give my mom a respite. Now, they were mine. I was the mom and it was just what I wanted, except for those moments when I thought I'd go nuts.
Hubders was wonderful. I loved the time of day when he'd walk through the door, with his smiling face, his adult conversation, and his joy at playing with his two little boys. But, he did have to bring home that bacon, and so, days were just me and the kids: the diapers, the runny noses, the laundry, the endless messes, the rashes, the tantrums, the lost shoes, the spilled milk; they were all constants in my life.
Usually I looked on the bright side, and fully enjoyed the sleepy snuggles, the faces that lit up just for me, the giggles, the wonder as they watched a bug at the park, the shrieks of delighted terror as I chased them round our little apartment, the absolute trust in their eyes, the joy of watching them learn new things, and the reading. It had become one of my passions, reading to those little guys. Where the Wild Things Are was a favorite and they never tired of hearing it. Who knew that making a story come alive for your kids could be so much fun?
Most of the time I was able to focus on the good things, but the relentlessness of the hard stuff would gang up on me some days and then it would bother me. Oh, not enough for me to feel like it was a mistake. I firmly believed that being a mother was the most important job on the planet; literally a sacred trust from God. I still wanted this as much as ever, but it was a harder gig than I'd imagined, and in the midst of the necessary drudgery, it was sometimes hard to remember how important being a mom was.
One morning, Sally, a friend from church called. Her babysitter was sick and Sally asked if I would watch her 18 month old daughter, Molly, for the day. I agreed. The day was uneventful and Sally eventually returned to pick her up. Sitting on the couch, she looked at me and said, "You don't know how lucky you are. I wish so bad I could stay home with Molly!" I replied that I did feel very blessed to be a stay-at-home mom, and after a few more exchanged pleasantries, Sally took her daughter home.
After she left, I couldn't get her comment out of my mind. I did feel blessed, but something was nagging at me. I mulled it over until I came to a realization. Sally was also very early in her marriage and I'd been to her home. It was a brand new, nice sized house, tastefully decorated with new furnishings, and there were two cute sporty little cars parked in the garage. On the other hand, Sally had trudged down the stairs to our basement apartment, sat on our hand-me-down furniture and walked past our one and only, on-it's-last-legs car. And it hit me. Sally could be where I was; struggling to make ends meet, with little in the way of material goods, and home, full-time, with her kids. She had chosen differently than I had, which is just fine, but it was a clarifying moment for me. The life I had chosen was more important to me than anything else. Owning a home and new furniture and nice cars would come once Hubders had a few more years of full-time employment under his belt; but they could wait while I did more important things.
I wasn't judgmental of Sally. This wasn't about her. It was the realization that this was the only acceptable way for me to live my life. I firmly believed that no one else could love those boys and give them what they needed like I could and I would have happily given up a lot of things before I'd give up full-time momhood. There was something liberating about seeing clearly why I'd made those choices and that, given the chance, I'd make the same ones all over again.
That realization was important, later on, when Hubders faced a long-term illness and money got even tighter. Although we knew that I may, at some point, have no choice but to enter the work force; together, we decided that until we couldn't even put those twenty-five cent boxes of macaroni and cheese on the table (yes, years ago you could by off-brand mac & cheese for a quarter), I wouldn't start looking for a job. Somehow, that day never came and I'm, happily, still at home preparing to send number six, my baby, off to kindergarten.
Although I may at some point get a job, I don't think I'll ever have a paid career. My past dreams of traveling, teaching in a school for the deaf, serving a full-time mission for my church, performing with impressive choirs, and writing gripping novels, all happily gave way to being a wife and mom. I'm entering a new stage of life now and I'm thinking about dusting off a few of those old dreams, but they will never mean as much to me as simply being a mom.
Hubders was wonderful. I loved the time of day when he'd walk through the door, with his smiling face, his adult conversation, and his joy at playing with his two little boys. But, he did have to bring home that bacon, and so, days were just me and the kids: the diapers, the runny noses, the laundry, the endless messes, the rashes, the tantrums, the lost shoes, the spilled milk; they were all constants in my life.
Usually I looked on the bright side, and fully enjoyed the sleepy snuggles, the faces that lit up just for me, the giggles, the wonder as they watched a bug at the park, the shrieks of delighted terror as I chased them round our little apartment, the absolute trust in their eyes, the joy of watching them learn new things, and the reading. It had become one of my passions, reading to those little guys. Where the Wild Things Are was a favorite and they never tired of hearing it. Who knew that making a story come alive for your kids could be so much fun?
Most of the time I was able to focus on the good things, but the relentlessness of the hard stuff would gang up on me some days and then it would bother me. Oh, not enough for me to feel like it was a mistake. I firmly believed that being a mother was the most important job on the planet; literally a sacred trust from God. I still wanted this as much as ever, but it was a harder gig than I'd imagined, and in the midst of the necessary drudgery, it was sometimes hard to remember how important being a mom was.
One morning, Sally, a friend from church called. Her babysitter was sick and Sally asked if I would watch her 18 month old daughter, Molly, for the day. I agreed. The day was uneventful and Sally eventually returned to pick her up. Sitting on the couch, she looked at me and said, "You don't know how lucky you are. I wish so bad I could stay home with Molly!" I replied that I did feel very blessed to be a stay-at-home mom, and after a few more exchanged pleasantries, Sally took her daughter home.
After she left, I couldn't get her comment out of my mind. I did feel blessed, but something was nagging at me. I mulled it over until I came to a realization. Sally was also very early in her marriage and I'd been to her home. It was a brand new, nice sized house, tastefully decorated with new furnishings, and there were two cute sporty little cars parked in the garage. On the other hand, Sally had trudged down the stairs to our basement apartment, sat on our hand-me-down furniture and walked past our one and only, on-it's-last-legs car. And it hit me. Sally could be where I was; struggling to make ends meet, with little in the way of material goods, and home, full-time, with her kids. She had chosen differently than I had, which is just fine, but it was a clarifying moment for me. The life I had chosen was more important to me than anything else. Owning a home and new furniture and nice cars would come once Hubders had a few more years of full-time employment under his belt; but they could wait while I did more important things.
I wasn't judgmental of Sally. This wasn't about her. It was the realization that this was the only acceptable way for me to live my life. I firmly believed that no one else could love those boys and give them what they needed like I could and I would have happily given up a lot of things before I'd give up full-time momhood. There was something liberating about seeing clearly why I'd made those choices and that, given the chance, I'd make the same ones all over again.
That realization was important, later on, when Hubders faced a long-term illness and money got even tighter. Although we knew that I may, at some point, have no choice but to enter the work force; together, we decided that until we couldn't even put those twenty-five cent boxes of macaroni and cheese on the table (yes, years ago you could by off-brand mac & cheese for a quarter), I wouldn't start looking for a job. Somehow, that day never came and I'm, happily, still at home preparing to send number six, my baby, off to kindergarten.
Although I may at some point get a job, I don't think I'll ever have a paid career. My past dreams of traveling, teaching in a school for the deaf, serving a full-time mission for my church, performing with impressive choirs, and writing gripping novels, all happily gave way to being a wife and mom. I'm entering a new stage of life now and I'm thinking about dusting off a few of those old dreams, but they will never mean as much to me as simply being a mom.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
By Small and Simple Things
I love the LDS hymns. Nothing brings the Spirit of the Lord and the peace that always follows, into my heart quicker than the singing of hymns. My testimony has been strengthened more in church by the singing of hymns than by listening to the sermons given. (Is that terrible to admit? Maybe so, but it's nevertheless true). There is something about sacred words put to music that bespeaks holiness and sinks the reality of the truths sung deep into my heart and soul. Truly "the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me" [Doctrine and Covenants 25:12]; and many's the time that my heartfelt singing of hymns has been answered with "a blessing upon (my) head".
We went to choir practice after church the other day, something I really didn't want to do. I was tired. We were all hungry. I had to drag all of the kids with me, and two of the three really didn't want to go. But we went. We only sang two songs, both hymns of the restoration. As we sang I again felt the witness that our Redeemer truly is our "shadow by day and our pillar by night" That he saves us today, just a literally and readily as he saved ancient Israel. That the "tokens already appear" and so, we can be sure that "the hour of redemption is near." It's all stuff that I already know and love, but to have it reafirmed as we sang was a sweet and tender mercy from a loving Father.
It's interesting to me that the spirit speaks so powerfully in such quiet ways. No one sitting near me had any idea that anything beautiful and sweet was being experienced nearby, but I came away from that practice refreshed, uplifted and more sure than ever that God is intimately acquainted with me and my struggles. All just from a hymn. "By small and simple things..." [Alma 37:6].
We went to choir practice after church the other day, something I really didn't want to do. I was tired. We were all hungry. I had to drag all of the kids with me, and two of the three really didn't want to go. But we went. We only sang two songs, both hymns of the restoration. As we sang I again felt the witness that our Redeemer truly is our "shadow by day and our pillar by night" That he saves us today, just a literally and readily as he saved ancient Israel. That the "tokens already appear" and so, we can be sure that "the hour of redemption is near." It's all stuff that I already know and love, but to have it reafirmed as we sang was a sweet and tender mercy from a loving Father.
It's interesting to me that the spirit speaks so powerfully in such quiet ways. No one sitting near me had any idea that anything beautiful and sweet was being experienced nearby, but I came away from that practice refreshed, uplifted and more sure than ever that God is intimately acquainted with me and my struggles. All just from a hymn. "By small and simple things..." [Alma 37:6].
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Random Thoughts
A smattering of thoughts rolling around in my noggin:
Fitting into the next smaller size is exponentially better than chocolate!
Being a Mom is the best and the toughest job on the planet!
Mega intense workouts are good for the soul as well as the body.
Organization may have to wait 'til the next life.
A tag-a-long on the back of your bike is harder than it looks.
Husbands are beautiful things.
You're always tougher than you think you are.
Without the peace and joy of the gospel I'd be ready for rubber wallpaper!!
Fitting into the next smaller size is exponentially better than chocolate!
Being a Mom is the best and the toughest job on the planet!
Mega intense workouts are good for the soul as well as the body.
Organization may have to wait 'til the next life.
A tag-a-long on the back of your bike is harder than it looks.
Husbands are beautiful things.
You're always tougher than you think you are.
Without the peace and joy of the gospel I'd be ready for rubber wallpaper!!
Friday, May 22, 2009
Some Things You Just Know
Girlie-whirl had two friends over to play the other day. We decided to pack a picnic lunch and head to our favorite park. The day was warm, the sky blue and the park crowded with families enjoying each other.
After playing for a while, we headed over to the picnic tables for lunch. We hadn't been eating long, when a woman at a nearby table screamed out an expletive. Everyone, of course, looked to see what the problem was. She had just noticed a seemingly dead baby bird under her table. Her family quickly moved to another table.
The whole area had now been alerted to the baby birds presence. It was interesting to watch the reactions. Birds had been flying continually in and out and no one seemed to pay any attention. But one dead baby bird and everyone was riveted. The children, especially were drawn to it. Time and again, moms had to remind children not to touch, not to get too close. Parent's faces showed pity and concern. One look wasn't sufficient for anyone, all eyes continually strayed back to the bird.
Then, the once thought dead bird started to flop and flail. The children cried out, "It's moving, it's moving!" Before, everyone felt sad, but now we were stricken. It was obviously not going to survive, was quickly on it's way out, and watching it struggle just hurt. As we stood around wondering what to do. One woman stood up and with her napkin, gently rolled the bird over, he flailed and was immediately on his back again. She tried again and eventually got the little thing to stay on it's stomach. It now looked more comfortable, and flailed less, but we all knew that it was just a matter of time.
Eventually I went back to the playground with the girls, but I kept going back to check on the bird. The last time, the bird was gone. I think it had breathed it's last and someone removed the body. A nice sign of respect.
Life is all around us, so much so that I think we take it for granted, don't even notice it--I know I do. Death, on the other hand, tends to be hidden from society. Old people move to rest homes where we don't see their physical descent. People dying of natural causes or accidents frequently do so in hospitals, hidden from view. Even the death of animals, something that 50 years ago was a common occurance is now a rarity for most of us. We don't kill the chicken and eat it, we buy a package of meat from the store.
Although our society hides death as much as possible, although we diliberately try to be ignorant of death and everything surrounding it, everyone at the park knew instinctively that the death struggles of that bird were not insignificant, that they mattered. Young or old, educated or otherwise, rich or poor, everyone there recognized that life is sacred, you could see it in their faces. It's a universal truth, and a beautiful thing.
After playing for a while, we headed over to the picnic tables for lunch. We hadn't been eating long, when a woman at a nearby table screamed out an expletive. Everyone, of course, looked to see what the problem was. She had just noticed a seemingly dead baby bird under her table. Her family quickly moved to another table.
The whole area had now been alerted to the baby birds presence. It was interesting to watch the reactions. Birds had been flying continually in and out and no one seemed to pay any attention. But one dead baby bird and everyone was riveted. The children, especially were drawn to it. Time and again, moms had to remind children not to touch, not to get too close. Parent's faces showed pity and concern. One look wasn't sufficient for anyone, all eyes continually strayed back to the bird.
Then, the once thought dead bird started to flop and flail. The children cried out, "It's moving, it's moving!" Before, everyone felt sad, but now we were stricken. It was obviously not going to survive, was quickly on it's way out, and watching it struggle just hurt. As we stood around wondering what to do. One woman stood up and with her napkin, gently rolled the bird over, he flailed and was immediately on his back again. She tried again and eventually got the little thing to stay on it's stomach. It now looked more comfortable, and flailed less, but we all knew that it was just a matter of time.
Eventually I went back to the playground with the girls, but I kept going back to check on the bird. The last time, the bird was gone. I think it had breathed it's last and someone removed the body. A nice sign of respect.
Life is all around us, so much so that I think we take it for granted, don't even notice it--I know I do. Death, on the other hand, tends to be hidden from society. Old people move to rest homes where we don't see their physical descent. People dying of natural causes or accidents frequently do so in hospitals, hidden from view. Even the death of animals, something that 50 years ago was a common occurance is now a rarity for most of us. We don't kill the chicken and eat it, we buy a package of meat from the store.
Although our society hides death as much as possible, although we diliberately try to be ignorant of death and everything surrounding it, everyone at the park knew instinctively that the death struggles of that bird were not insignificant, that they mattered. Young or old, educated or otherwise, rich or poor, everyone there recognized that life is sacred, you could see it in their faces. It's a universal truth, and a beautiful thing.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Embrace the Differences
We are not experienced travelers, but the little travel we have done has been an adventure. We've tried to embrace the differences in other cultures and not expect things to be like they are at home. This has generally been easy, but there was the one time when it took some real effort.
Years ago, my husband and I took a 21 day trip that included a three day Aegean Sea cruise. I'd never been on a cruise before and was excited to experience one for myself. I'd been told that the food on a cruise is to die for, and I was eagerly anticipating the food, the islands, the sights and any other delights that were in store.
We happened to board right before lunch, so we hit the smorgasbord and loaded up our plates. Sitting at a table with two friends and our Greek tour guide, Magda, three of us realized that we had big, black, curly hairs in our pasta salad. Can you say, YUCK!!? Magda asked us what was wrong. When we told her, she shrugged, and in her beautiful Greek accent asked, "What can you do?" Because we had come to enjoy our experience in Greece to the full, we determined not to let a few hairs ruin our meal. Leaving the pasta salad on our plates, we thoroughly checked our remaining food to ensure hairlessness and finished off our meals with only slightly dampened enthusiasm.
The cruise proceeded and we visited the islands of Patmos, Mykanos, and Rhodes. The sites were beautiful and enlightening. Our meals on board were good and, although we ate somewhat cautiously, we, thankfully, saw no repeat of the hair incident.
The last morning on board, we breakfasted as usual, eating leisurely while we chatted with friends. As we finished up, a couple at a nearby table asked the waiter for more orange juice. In full view of us all, he walked over to a nearby table, picked up two glasses, one half empty and one seemingly untouched, filled the half empty glass to the brim, placed both on a serving tray, and gave the juice to the couple! We were more than mildly disturbed, slightly queasy, and grateful that our meals on board were behind us!
Years ago, my husband and I took a 21 day trip that included a three day Aegean Sea cruise. I'd never been on a cruise before and was excited to experience one for myself. I'd been told that the food on a cruise is to die for, and I was eagerly anticipating the food, the islands, the sights and any other delights that were in store.
We happened to board right before lunch, so we hit the smorgasbord and loaded up our plates. Sitting at a table with two friends and our Greek tour guide, Magda, three of us realized that we had big, black, curly hairs in our pasta salad. Can you say, YUCK!!? Magda asked us what was wrong. When we told her, she shrugged, and in her beautiful Greek accent asked, "What can you do?" Because we had come to enjoy our experience in Greece to the full, we determined not to let a few hairs ruin our meal. Leaving the pasta salad on our plates, we thoroughly checked our remaining food to ensure hairlessness and finished off our meals with only slightly dampened enthusiasm.
The cruise proceeded and we visited the islands of Patmos, Mykanos, and Rhodes. The sites were beautiful and enlightening. Our meals on board were good and, although we ate somewhat cautiously, we, thankfully, saw no repeat of the hair incident.
The last morning on board, we breakfasted as usual, eating leisurely while we chatted with friends. As we finished up, a couple at a nearby table asked the waiter for more orange juice. In full view of us all, he walked over to a nearby table, picked up two glasses, one half empty and one seemingly untouched, filled the half empty glass to the brim, placed both on a serving tray, and gave the juice to the couple! We were more than mildly disturbed, slightly queasy, and grateful that our meals on board were behind us!
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Taking time and feeling guilt
I've had some thoughts wandering around in my brain for a few weeks that I hadn't found time to write down. Blogging yesterday, I read Mommy Snark's latest on writing and that was the catalyst to get me started. I love that she's actually written a book. What a beautiful thing! And I believe it's wonderful in God's eyes whether or not anyone else ever enjoys reading it. (It should be noted that comments on her blog from those who HAVE read the manuscript are very positive and I hope to have the opportunity to read it for myself someday.) You can read her post here
My thoughts have been on creating and writing and learning and growing, and the smiles I feel from above as I make the attempt to do these things. Every time I purposefully embark on a new learning/growing experience, I palpably feel my Heavenly Father's approval, and this is true whether or not anything actually comes of the attempt. I first noticed this years ago when my husband, observing that I had an interest, bought for me the equipment needed to tune a piano. He suggested that I hire a tuner that would be willing to show me the ropes as they worked on ours. I found one and jumped in. As I proceeded, I felt a great sense of well-being about the process; a sense that my Heavenly Father was tickled pink that I was actively growing and learning something new just because I wanted to. Other things came up, and it mostly fizzled (please do NOT ask me to tune your piano!), but I was intrigued by the message from above.
That feeling has been repeated recently as I've signed up for and started training for a half triathlon, joined and then taken over responsibility for a book club, actively pursued increasing my sign language skills, and now I feel it about blogging of all things! Although I've thought about and wanted to write a book since high school, I have been loathe to start. The actual writing process was always drudgery to me in high school and I've avoided writing as much as possible in the intervening years. But blogging now has this hold on me that I need to explore. I've been pleasantly surprised at how much I'm enjoying this writing thing, and once again, I feel God nudging me forward to, literally, heaven knows where.
I , of course, feel God's approval as I try to be a better wife and mother, serve more diligently in my church, or help out the sick and needy, but for some reason, the immediate inner blessings of peace and approval, for taking "me time" to grow and learn just for the joy of it, were a real surprise to me. A sweet, happy surprise. I know it shouldn't have been. He is, after all, our Father. And being a father with all good attributes in full, he obviously wants me to learn and grow and find joy. I think I got caught up in all the selfless things that we're called on to do and had learned, rightly, to find joy in them most of the time. Doing things just for me seemed to be somewhat of a guilty pleasure, a necessary evil; something that I should minimize as much as possible. (Don't get me wrong I do it all the time, but I feel a bit selfish for it.) To learn that actively pursuing things just for me is heartily approved of by the Lord is a sweet and beautiful thing. (and a bit of a "duh" moment!)
So I'm pressing forward with writing, fitting it in between loads of laundry, doing dishes, and reading to my preschooler. I don't know where it will lead, probably not to a finished manuscript, but, at minimum to some improved writing skills, to more knowledge, and definitely to more joy. And that's a beautiful thing!
My thoughts have been on creating and writing and learning and growing, and the smiles I feel from above as I make the attempt to do these things. Every time I purposefully embark on a new learning/growing experience, I palpably feel my Heavenly Father's approval, and this is true whether or not anything actually comes of the attempt. I first noticed this years ago when my husband, observing that I had an interest, bought for me the equipment needed to tune a piano. He suggested that I hire a tuner that would be willing to show me the ropes as they worked on ours. I found one and jumped in. As I proceeded, I felt a great sense of well-being about the process; a sense that my Heavenly Father was tickled pink that I was actively growing and learning something new just because I wanted to. Other things came up, and it mostly fizzled (please do NOT ask me to tune your piano!), but I was intrigued by the message from above.
That feeling has been repeated recently as I've signed up for and started training for a half triathlon, joined and then taken over responsibility for a book club, actively pursued increasing my sign language skills, and now I feel it about blogging of all things! Although I've thought about and wanted to write a book since high school, I have been loathe to start. The actual writing process was always drudgery to me in high school and I've avoided writing as much as possible in the intervening years. But blogging now has this hold on me that I need to explore. I've been pleasantly surprised at how much I'm enjoying this writing thing, and once again, I feel God nudging me forward to, literally, heaven knows where.
I , of course, feel God's approval as I try to be a better wife and mother, serve more diligently in my church, or help out the sick and needy, but for some reason, the immediate inner blessings of peace and approval, for taking "me time" to grow and learn just for the joy of it, were a real surprise to me. A sweet, happy surprise. I know it shouldn't have been. He is, after all, our Father. And being a father with all good attributes in full, he obviously wants me to learn and grow and find joy. I think I got caught up in all the selfless things that we're called on to do and had learned, rightly, to find joy in them most of the time. Doing things just for me seemed to be somewhat of a guilty pleasure, a necessary evil; something that I should minimize as much as possible. (Don't get me wrong I do it all the time, but I feel a bit selfish for it.) To learn that actively pursuing things just for me is heartily approved of by the Lord is a sweet and beautiful thing. (and a bit of a "duh" moment!)
So I'm pressing forward with writing, fitting it in between loads of laundry, doing dishes, and reading to my preschooler. I don't know where it will lead, probably not to a finished manuscript, but, at minimum to some improved writing skills, to more knowledge, and definitely to more joy. And that's a beautiful thing!
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Vanity!
I do not like my hair right now. It's been short and easy care for years now but I like change. Boredom sets in if I leave it in the same style for too long, so I'm growing it out. Having done so in the past, I remember that it's an annoying process, but I'd forgotten how extreme the annoyance really is. The process of going from short and sassy to long enough to successfully coif behind the head is driving me nuts! I just want to be able to pull it back into a pony tail when running/biking/working out. Is that too much to ask?
The layers are growing out fairly quickly, but the problem is that I have a lot of hair. When getting it cut, it's imperative to have the stylist texturize it to death, or my nice new style cut, all too soon, turns into a bush; an unattractive, over-grown, really needs to be pruned bush. Not exactly the look I'm going for. As the layers grow out, the bush has, sadly, turned into something like a weeping willow. Again, a fairly unappealing look, so I went and got it shaped. It looked great, actually looked like my hair had a smidgen of a sense of style again. But, not knowing any better--what do I know about hair?--I had them texturize it as usual. This wasn't a problem until a few weeks later when it started to grow out. The texturization (I'm sure that's not a real word) caused hundreds of short little hairs to stick straight out amongst the branches of the weeping willow, giving me a porcupine-ish weeping willow kind of look. ARRGH! Some days it looks somewhat okay--not great, mind you--but not horrendous either. And every day is a struggle to get to the point where I'm not abashed to be seen in public. I'm not terribly vain, but embarrassingly bad hair days, stacked one on top of another for weeks in a row are starting to give me a complex! And yet, my hair is still not quite long enough to ponytail it. Something about the shape of my head necessitates longer than average locks to pull off a tail!
Almost at the end of my rope, I mentioned that I was going to give up and get it cut. To which my husband replied, "No, don't cut it!" He almost never gives his opinion about this kind of thing, so the knowledge that Hubders wants me to grow it out, helped me find the wherewithal to stick it out a bit longer.
I know that this too shall pass and that it's not important in the eternal scheme of things, but I will be soooo relieved to put this process behind me! It feels incredibly vain to be terribly bugged by multiple bad hair days, when there is actual real suffering in the world; but the relentlessness of dealing with this is wearing very thin. Once the hair has reached the required length and a professional has trimmed it ever so slightly into a somewhat stylish do; once I am again satisfied that I don't look incredibly dorky, then I'll be grown-up and mature. Right now, I just want to have a meltdown, reminiscent of my teenage years, in front of my mirror each morning. But that would be an incredibly bad example to set before my young-uns. So, instead, I'll whimper inside and suffer in silence whilst I yearn for better hair days.
The layers are growing out fairly quickly, but the problem is that I have a lot of hair. When getting it cut, it's imperative to have the stylist texturize it to death, or my nice new style cut, all too soon, turns into a bush; an unattractive, over-grown, really needs to be pruned bush. Not exactly the look I'm going for. As the layers grow out, the bush has, sadly, turned into something like a weeping willow. Again, a fairly unappealing look, so I went and got it shaped. It looked great, actually looked like my hair had a smidgen of a sense of style again. But, not knowing any better--what do I know about hair?--I had them texturize it as usual. This wasn't a problem until a few weeks later when it started to grow out. The texturization (I'm sure that's not a real word) caused hundreds of short little hairs to stick straight out amongst the branches of the weeping willow, giving me a porcupine-ish weeping willow kind of look. ARRGH! Some days it looks somewhat okay--not great, mind you--but not horrendous either. And every day is a struggle to get to the point where I'm not abashed to be seen in public. I'm not terribly vain, but embarrassingly bad hair days, stacked one on top of another for weeks in a row are starting to give me a complex! And yet, my hair is still not quite long enough to ponytail it. Something about the shape of my head necessitates longer than average locks to pull off a tail!
Almost at the end of my rope, I mentioned that I was going to give up and get it cut. To which my husband replied, "No, don't cut it!" He almost never gives his opinion about this kind of thing, so the knowledge that Hubders wants me to grow it out, helped me find the wherewithal to stick it out a bit longer.
I know that this too shall pass and that it's not important in the eternal scheme of things, but I will be soooo relieved to put this process behind me! It feels incredibly vain to be terribly bugged by multiple bad hair days, when there is actual real suffering in the world; but the relentlessness of dealing with this is wearing very thin. Once the hair has reached the required length and a professional has trimmed it ever so slightly into a somewhat stylish do; once I am again satisfied that I don't look incredibly dorky, then I'll be grown-up and mature. Right now, I just want to have a meltdown, reminiscent of my teenage years, in front of my mirror each morning. But that would be an incredibly bad example to set before my young-uns. So, instead, I'll whimper inside and suffer in silence whilst I yearn for better hair days.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Surprise!
I've always loved surprises. I love the anticipation, the savoring and wondering, almost as much, and sometimes more, than the actual event/gift itself. Hubders could tell me exactly where my birthday present was hiding months in advance (this is obviously a hypothetical example, I can't quite imagine him actually purchasing a gift that early), and I would not be tempted in the least to peek. That would ruin the surprise. When Ruggles was in-utero (spell check won't help me spell that word!), the ultrasound obviously revealed, even to my untrained eyes, that we were about to welcome son number two into our family. It was interesting to me that the actual delivery was a bit of a let-down. Along with the joy and wonder of seeing him for the very first time, the absolute miracle of one so recently sent down from God, there was also a smidge of disappointment. Not disappointment that he was another boy, but that I already KNEW he was a boy. The surprise part of it had been taken from me. Not a huge deal really, but it was then that I realized how big I am on surprises.
My love of watching things unknown unfold at the proper time is a big part of why I love being a mom. To me, it's the most satisfying surprise of all to watch your children grow and develop into whoever it is they are in the process of becoming. I couldn't have guessed when I was in the throws of diaperdom and refereeing squabbles between my first three that Tough-guy was in process of developing such a love for his country that he'd put himself through the excruciating process of becoming a Marine and literally offer to lay down his life for his country. Or that Ruggles, who just wanted to play and would do almost anything to get out of work, would buckle in, save more than the entire $10,000 dollars needed to pay for his LDS mission and serve with all his heart in Thailand. Or that Sweetie, who is so innocent and pure that you felt you would always need to protect her, would be the first to go off to college half a continent away, and thrive there with a beauty and grace that is a joy to behold. What a lovely surprise this mothering thing can be!
My three younger children are still unknowns. Beautifully wrapped packages with only the corner opened. I still have most of the anticipation and excitement of their big reveal yet ahead. But occasionally I get another glimpse of what lies beneath the paper.
We just got back from visiting my parents on their mission. I absolutely love that after nine years of a twenty hour drive to see my mom, she's now only three hours away!!! Hubders, bless his heart, is simply letting me go whenever I want--not quite three months into their mission and I just came back from visit number three! This trip I took Bikey-boy and Banana-girl out of school so they could come too.
Grandma has generally made a hot breakfast, but she recently hurt her knee (surgery is probably in her near future), and so planned a breakfast of cold cereal. My family loves cold cereal, so this isn't a problem, but she only had the kinds of cereal that adults traditionally like. There wasn't a single choice that didn't have dried fruit of some kind in it. And to top it off, there was only skim milk, something my children have learned to drink in a glass, but are loathe to ever have on any cereal. Not four months ago, we had a protracted struggle at the breakfast table with ten-year-old Banana-girl because she accidentally poured skim milk on her cheerios. I let her know that we were not going to waste that bowl, it was perfectly good milk, not sour or anything, and she could eat it. Although she eventually did, it was NOT a fun morning. Bikey-boy and Girlie-whirl both like raisin bran, so I knew they would enjoy the meal, but I was thinking of how to help Banana-girl act appropriately about her breakfast options when she took the raisin bran, poured it in her bowl, topped it off with skim milk and pleasantly joined in the breakfast conversation as she proceeded to eat!!! She's certainly growing up! It was a lovely surprise!
My love of watching things unknown unfold at the proper time is a big part of why I love being a mom. To me, it's the most satisfying surprise of all to watch your children grow and develop into whoever it is they are in the process of becoming. I couldn't have guessed when I was in the throws of diaperdom and refereeing squabbles between my first three that Tough-guy was in process of developing such a love for his country that he'd put himself through the excruciating process of becoming a Marine and literally offer to lay down his life for his country. Or that Ruggles, who just wanted to play and would do almost anything to get out of work, would buckle in, save more than the entire $10,000 dollars needed to pay for his LDS mission and serve with all his heart in Thailand. Or that Sweetie, who is so innocent and pure that you felt you would always need to protect her, would be the first to go off to college half a continent away, and thrive there with a beauty and grace that is a joy to behold. What a lovely surprise this mothering thing can be!
My three younger children are still unknowns. Beautifully wrapped packages with only the corner opened. I still have most of the anticipation and excitement of their big reveal yet ahead. But occasionally I get another glimpse of what lies beneath the paper.
We just got back from visiting my parents on their mission. I absolutely love that after nine years of a twenty hour drive to see my mom, she's now only three hours away!!! Hubders, bless his heart, is simply letting me go whenever I want--not quite three months into their mission and I just came back from visit number three! This trip I took Bikey-boy and Banana-girl out of school so they could come too.
Grandma has generally made a hot breakfast, but she recently hurt her knee (surgery is probably in her near future), and so planned a breakfast of cold cereal. My family loves cold cereal, so this isn't a problem, but she only had the kinds of cereal that adults traditionally like. There wasn't a single choice that didn't have dried fruit of some kind in it. And to top it off, there was only skim milk, something my children have learned to drink in a glass, but are loathe to ever have on any cereal. Not four months ago, we had a protracted struggle at the breakfast table with ten-year-old Banana-girl because she accidentally poured skim milk on her cheerios. I let her know that we were not going to waste that bowl, it was perfectly good milk, not sour or anything, and she could eat it. Although she eventually did, it was NOT a fun morning. Bikey-boy and Girlie-whirl both like raisin bran, so I knew they would enjoy the meal, but I was thinking of how to help Banana-girl act appropriately about her breakfast options when she took the raisin bran, poured it in her bowl, topped it off with skim milk and pleasantly joined in the breakfast conversation as she proceeded to eat!!! She's certainly growing up! It was a lovely surprise!
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
I'm glad I don't live in Somalia
I learned something new this morning. For the past twenty-four years, whenever Somalia is prominently in the headlines, my husband thinks of me and the different paths my life could have taken. This was news to me. I don't think much of anything when I hear about Somalia, but, apparently, hubders does. Interesting.
The story behind his musings goes way back to college to a tale of unrequited love--(okay, in retrospect, I'm sure there was no real love involved, but that didn't occur to me until I was much older and somewhat wiser). I'll try to make it short, but I may not succeed.
I attended an agricultural university where there were significant numbers of international students. Many of the campus co-eds learned the hard way that normal pleasantries--such as smiling and saying hi--were often interpreted as romantic overtures by said international students of the male persuasion.
I worked the taco bar in the cafeteria and tried to be friendly and helpful to everyone who came to me for Mexican yummies. Every day a guy would come and order a taco salad. Sometimes we would chat a bit if things weren't too busy and I eventually learned that his name was...I'll just call him Asad, and that he was from Somalia. We became what I would call casual acquaintances. He said that the Somali government was paying for his education and that after graduation, he would become the head of agriculture for the country. (I completely believed him at the time, but on reflection, he was probably not completely honest with me--duh!) Soon, he started asking me to go to dinner with him, but I had decided long ago, that once I was of marriageable age, I wouldn't date anyone who couldn't take me to the temple. (For those who are not LDS, temples are where we Mormons marry for time and all eternity--something very important to me). However, standing at the taco bar preparing burritos for customers hardly seemed the appropriate time and place to explain this to Asad. I tried to put him off in more casual ways but he was persistent, so I eventually agreed to go to dinner with him. I reasoned that I would pay for my own meal and there would explain why I couldn't date him.
A few days later we went to dinner and after talking for two hours, a good portion of it about the whys and wherefores of my decision not to date him, he asked if I would wait for him while he went back to Somalia for a year. He would then return and marry me. I was dumbfounded, to say the least! Yup! I won't date you, but I'd be happy to enter into nuptials!? It was most likely a language problem that accounted for this miscommunication, despite his fluent English--that, or a fervent desire to procure US citizenship--again, something that only occurred to me much later. I, of course, explained that marriage was out of the question and that we could only be friends.
He continued to come to the taco bar. He called me frequently, gave me ivory jewelry and a book on Mormons and Muslims. His favorite phrase was, "I don't know, but I think that one day, you will marry me." He seemed completely harmless and I never felt threatened in any way, but I was looking forward to the fast approaching day when he would fly back to Somalia. However, that day came and went and he didn't fly. He continued to call and wanted to see me, but I was invariably busy--usually, legitimately so. One day he called, got a bit angry and told me that he had stayed an extra month just so he could see me and now I was never available. Never being one for confrontation--okay, I'm a wimp!--I calmly explained to him, that I hadn't asked for him to stay and that my schedule was busy and that's just the way it was. He eventually flew home; calling me en route to ask if he could send me a new wardrobe from Paris--which I flatly refused to let him do. The LAST thing I needed was to be made to feel indebted to him because he spent a wad of cash on me!
Although there were multiple attempts to contact me after that, they were easy to deal with, owing to the fact that he was half a world away. I never saw him again. Now I don't want to leave the wrong impression. This was not a case of tall, dark and handsome falls madly in love with me. It was more a case of short, dark, so-so looking and somewhat whiney refuses to take no for an answer--a much less romantic scenario!
By the time he left, I was dating Hubders and the rest is history. In the intervening years, we've seen Somalia in the news for the following: large famines (Hubder's imagining me starving to death); bloody coups (husband imagining me living in exile in Paris, or, worse, murdered with my family); drug cartells (he's imagining me married to the guy who wastes anyone who gets in the way, and me getting wasted as payback or some such thing); and now pirates (use your own imagination--though I doubt it will be as original as his!)
I've always said that life with Hubders is never dull, but I'm happy to report that the excitement of life with him is of the ordinary mundane kind, and much more to my liking than the life he imagines for me as wife of Asad, the Head of Agriculture for the government of Somalia.
The story behind his musings goes way back to college to a tale of unrequited love--(okay, in retrospect, I'm sure there was no real love involved, but that didn't occur to me until I was much older and somewhat wiser). I'll try to make it short, but I may not succeed.
I attended an agricultural university where there were significant numbers of international students. Many of the campus co-eds learned the hard way that normal pleasantries--such as smiling and saying hi--were often interpreted as romantic overtures by said international students of the male persuasion.
I worked the taco bar in the cafeteria and tried to be friendly and helpful to everyone who came to me for Mexican yummies. Every day a guy would come and order a taco salad. Sometimes we would chat a bit if things weren't too busy and I eventually learned that his name was...I'll just call him Asad, and that he was from Somalia. We became what I would call casual acquaintances. He said that the Somali government was paying for his education and that after graduation, he would become the head of agriculture for the country. (I completely believed him at the time, but on reflection, he was probably not completely honest with me--duh!) Soon, he started asking me to go to dinner with him, but I had decided long ago, that once I was of marriageable age, I wouldn't date anyone who couldn't take me to the temple. (For those who are not LDS, temples are where we Mormons marry for time and all eternity--something very important to me). However, standing at the taco bar preparing burritos for customers hardly seemed the appropriate time and place to explain this to Asad. I tried to put him off in more casual ways but he was persistent, so I eventually agreed to go to dinner with him. I reasoned that I would pay for my own meal and there would explain why I couldn't date him.
A few days later we went to dinner and after talking for two hours, a good portion of it about the whys and wherefores of my decision not to date him, he asked if I would wait for him while he went back to Somalia for a year. He would then return and marry me. I was dumbfounded, to say the least! Yup! I won't date you, but I'd be happy to enter into nuptials!? It was most likely a language problem that accounted for this miscommunication, despite his fluent English--that, or a fervent desire to procure US citizenship--again, something that only occurred to me much later. I, of course, explained that marriage was out of the question and that we could only be friends.
He continued to come to the taco bar. He called me frequently, gave me ivory jewelry and a book on Mormons and Muslims. His favorite phrase was, "I don't know, but I think that one day, you will marry me." He seemed completely harmless and I never felt threatened in any way, but I was looking forward to the fast approaching day when he would fly back to Somalia. However, that day came and went and he didn't fly. He continued to call and wanted to see me, but I was invariably busy--usually, legitimately so. One day he called, got a bit angry and told me that he had stayed an extra month just so he could see me and now I was never available. Never being one for confrontation--okay, I'm a wimp!--I calmly explained to him, that I hadn't asked for him to stay and that my schedule was busy and that's just the way it was. He eventually flew home; calling me en route to ask if he could send me a new wardrobe from Paris--which I flatly refused to let him do. The LAST thing I needed was to be made to feel indebted to him because he spent a wad of cash on me!
Although there were multiple attempts to contact me after that, they were easy to deal with, owing to the fact that he was half a world away. I never saw him again. Now I don't want to leave the wrong impression. This was not a case of tall, dark and handsome falls madly in love with me. It was more a case of short, dark, so-so looking and somewhat whiney refuses to take no for an answer--a much less romantic scenario!
By the time he left, I was dating Hubders and the rest is history. In the intervening years, we've seen Somalia in the news for the following: large famines (Hubder's imagining me starving to death); bloody coups (husband imagining me living in exile in Paris, or, worse, murdered with my family); drug cartells (he's imagining me married to the guy who wastes anyone who gets in the way, and me getting wasted as payback or some such thing); and now pirates (use your own imagination--though I doubt it will be as original as his!)
I've always said that life with Hubders is never dull, but I'm happy to report that the excitement of life with him is of the ordinary mundane kind, and much more to my liking than the life he imagines for me as wife of Asad, the Head of Agriculture for the government of Somalia.
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