A Proper Goodbye

To say that I've loved having this outlet would be a gross understatement.  It has been freeing to give voice to my quirky thoughts, joyful moments and motherly frustrations.  I've become addicted, as I feared I might.  Remember when I told you about my dysfunctional reading?  Well, It's turned into dysfunctional blogging.  

When I was a young paper carrier I used to walk my route thinking in "novel."  Thoughts such as, "the tired girl wiped the sweat from her brow with one hand as she pulled the next paper from her bag with the other."  My thoughts were literally like I was reading them from a book.  Strange, I know.  So now I'm thinking in "blog" and it's driving me insane.  

The other problem?  Early morning = personal scripture study, daytime = Allie, evening = alone time with the love of my life.  There just doesn't seem to be a fitting time for me to indulge myself in my latest addiction.  My youngest will only be home for one more year.  I can't afford any regrets at this stage in my life.

Be sure to keep tabs on us through this guy's blog.  Who knows, maybe he'll even let me be a guest blogger from time to time.

Thank you for indulging me in this blogging adventure of mine.

I have loved every moment of it

and I'll miss it like mad ~

It's been fun

but I'm out.  

I have a little girl that needs me.

Goodbye for now.

He and I

The kids were dreaming in their beds, the spring rain had given way to evening stars and silence had fallen over our home.  The perfect setting for one of those perfect nights.  The kind of night where the discussion turns easily from the stresses of the day to the wonder of each other.  We shared our day in detail, citing conversations word for word, enjoying insight into the other's world.  We laughed at shared observations and insights.  We stood in the dimly lit kitchen talking that way late into the night until we reluctantly made our way upstairs.  We knelt to pray and then climbed under the sheets to talk and laugh some more.  It reminded me of being 10 again . . .

My best friend and I would sit on the hill that was exactly halfway between our homes (we knew because we counted the steps) and we would talk and talk and talk.  We spent every waking moment together yet somehow there was always something more that needed to be discussed.  As the summer was drawing to a close we had the brilliant idea of writing up a friendship contract.  It was short and to the point, stating that we would be best friends until the end of time.  We signed it and tried to seal it with our blood (we were both too squeamish).  We carefully wrapped it with tissue and placed it in an airtight baggie stolen from her mothers kitchen.  We buried it under a pine tree at the top of our hill and then sat down to watch the sunset, pleased in the knowledge that our friendship would now last the annals of time.

He reminds me of that.  Always more to share, more to learn, more to enjoy.  Maybe I'll ask him if he wants to write up a contract.

Now, how did that happen again?

The picture I emailed my parents to use on their Christmas card:

The picture that ended up on their Christmas card:

Playing Favorites

I had it all mapped out as a kid.  I moved into adulthood with the arrogant assurance that  I was going to be a FABULOUS grownup.  I had been a keen observer as a youth, taking scrupulous mental notes on how to do it "right" when I arrived in the big people world.  One thing was for sure . . . I was going to be a favorite aunt to my numerous future nieces and nephews.

Favorite aunts ask you lots of questions about yourself.  They keep track of what your doing in your life, who your best friends are, who you're in love with at the moment and what your favorite junk food is.  They can continue a conversation you started 6 months before without missing a beat.  They notice your hair, your new shirt, the color of your toenails . . . and they compliment you freely and often.  They hug you, laugh at your jokes and act like you're the epitome of perfect.  They stop their long, boring conversations with adults to play games with you.  Their eyes sparkle and their giggle is intoxicating.  You adopt their mannerisms, practicing them often in the privacy of your bedroom.  Favorite aunts tell you that you are wonderful, and you believe it.

So here I am all these years later.  I have a difficult time remembering how to engage a 15 year old in conversation, or how to pick out an appropriate gift for someone older or younger than my own children.  I lay in bed late and night and realize that I've missed yet one more birthday even though I've been looking at it on my calendar for days.  A serious deviation from my original "favorite aunt" agenda.

My newest nephew was blessed on Sunday.  During a quiet moment I cuddled him close and as his baby breath warmed my cheek I told him how wonderful he is.

Maybe it's not about me being their favorite after all.  Maybe it's more about them being my favorite.  And they are, every last one of them.

 

cue the violin

As I listened to the weeping and wailing 

over piano practice this morning

I wanted to say, 

"Pull it together boys!  If this is the worst part of your life

 you've got it made!"

And then I remembered how I had teared up

in front of the GE repairman,

and I'm sure he was thinking,

"Pull it together lady!  If this is the worst thing in your life . . ."

Fresh Lime Chiffon Cake

Aptly named Hollywood caterer Harry Baker invented the chiffon cake in the 1920s. He used vegetable oil (instead of butter or shortening) and beaten egg whites to achieve the lightness of angel food cake and a tender, moist crumb. General Mills purchased Baker's formula in the 1940s and introduced it nationwide under its Betty Crocker label; it was the must-bake cake of the 1950s and '60s. Our updated three-layer version combines dazzling style with the refreshing crispness of fresh lime juice. [Cooking Light]

This beauty was whipped up by my man

and served with a smile
to his former scouting colleagues and their wives.

It was delectable.

I bet you didn't see many husbands 

sporting aprons

 in the 1950s.

Time to purchase more rock salt

Showering in hard water

after your used to showering in soft water

is like following the kid down the slide

who just wet his pants.

It's not the smooth experience you were hoping for.

There was a boy

at the grocery store the other day. He was strikingly handsome, catching my eye from isles away. Blonde curls that fell just above his shoulders and steely blue eyes the color of ocean at midday. He seemed out of place among the mothers moving systematically up and down the isles. Home schooled I concluded. We met up in front of the pasta. I waited my turn patiently a few feet behind as his mother read the labels. "She's looking at me," he said loudly as I averted my eyes. She gave an experienced reply under her breath. "She's still watching me!" I excused myself and reached through them at that point to grab my spaghetti. No need to prolong his misery. As I pushed my cart through the end of the isle I had to restrain myself from turning back and hugging his mother. I wanted to tell her how fantastic she was doing, how her calm disposition and label reading were inspirational to me. I wanted to tell her that her son was beautiful, inside and out. I wanted to tell her that "I get it."

Our oldest hadn't been in kindergarten a week before I got a call from his teacher. (I'm reasonably sure that was the point my phone number made it onto the school's speed dial.) She suggested parenting classes, implementing more chores at home and a daily behavioral chart. It was crystal clear that our parenting was in question. No surprise to me . . . I'd been questioning it myself for the past 5 years.

Our third son, diagnosed with PDD-Nos (pervasive developmental disorder not otherwise specified), was a student in her class 5 years later. We worked hand in hand to help him integrate and the results were astounding. He was an absolute shining star. She and I shared tears of joy and celebration on many occasions. She introduced me to her family, offered to teach me how to make Mac videos over the summer, and raved about my amazing parenting skills to everyone she came in contact with. She's even given my number to other mothers of special needs children.

I've realized through this experience and many more like it that I'm not a bad mother. I'm not a miracle mother. I'm a fine mother.

So send kind looks to those mothers in the grocery store . . . those mothers that are homeschooling, reading labels and exercising more patience than seems humanly possible. Things aren't always as they seem.

*disclaimer: I absolutely LOVE the boys kindergarten teacher. She has truly been an answer to prayers. Both of the boys have had their struggles in school and otherwise but it's had it's blessings. They are wise beyond their years, having learned lessons that take most of us a lifetime to learn.

We painted our toenails today

with "Not So Blue-berry" polish

that smells like blueberries

isn't it wonderful

being a girl

You'll want to read this . . .

My Boston brother-in-law's post of the day:

"Figuring Things Out"

and then to lighten things up

read THIS if you haven't already

(let's all commit to "Jethro")

 

He was having an "off" morning

so we sat on a bench just outside the the heavy green school doors.  He placed little white blossoms throughout my hair, leaning over to smell them from time to time.  We  sat there like that until he was ready go in . . . 20 minutes after the bell had rung.  It was heavenly.

 

Monday Morning

snow capped mountains

the fragrant smell of blossoms

tulips and daffodils decorate the path

a robin perched nearby

blinds pulled up

windows opened wide

jackets left hanging

the hum of a busy washing machine

a little princess dancing in my kitchen

I fear I've offended you

I'm sorry.  In a quieter moment of the day I found myself thinking of all the sleep I've lost with you over the years.  A few of my favorites:  

When we would all bundle into my bedroom on Christmas Eve.  Sleep eluded us as we listened for sleigh bells and discussed our Christmas lists.  Talk inevitably turned into laughter summoning the parents more than once in the night.  You and Becky were always the first to wake us just a few short hours later.

As a counselor at C.F. (cystic fibrosis) camp.  I loved being a quiet observer as I watched you laugh and dance late into the night under the evening stars.  You turned from a boy into a man over those years.  One night as I was stumbling through the dark back to my cabin (I had forgotten my flashlight of course) I was overcome with the deep love I have for you.  I sat down where I was and had a good cry as I thanked Heavenly Father for all that you are.  When the cold of early morning set in I found my cabin, cuddled into the warmth of my sleeping bag and and cried some more.

And my very favorite night of no sleep?  When you called me late one Saturday night, just as I was pulling on my pajamas.  Jenny had gone into labor and you wanted me to go to the hospital with you.  On the drive to Salt Lake I felt my heart would burst with excitement.  Each minute felt like an hour as I sat outside the O.R. . . . waiting.  And then I saw them.  They were everything perfect and beautiful about you and Jen swaddled in two little packages.  I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

Some of my very best nights of "no sleep" have been with you.

So I take it back. (see post below)

You can wake me any time you'd like.

I'm here.

I love you brother, you know I do

but you shouldn't knock on my door at 6:30 on a Saturday morning

and ask for a drink of water while you're out jogging anymore.

It makes me think sad thoughts at you all day.

(unless of course you are really dehydrated and you are on death's doorstep, 

but maybe then you could just use the hose, or be like Richard Gere in First Night and find a really handy way to catch rain water in a leaf)

The moral of the story is

brush your fluffy dog daily

[10:30 a.m.]

or the groomer will be forced to do this to him

[1:30 p.m.]

oops.

Can they be overused?

My cousin uses the expression without reserve and I admire that.  She has told me multiple times that she loves me and I know she does.  She ends most every phone call with that exact sentiment.  I decided one day after hanging up with her that I would adopt her ease of telling those I cared for that I love them . . . and that I would do it often.  

All these years later I have a house full of little people who use those words freely and often.  "I love you" was swirling around with reckless abandon this morning as my sweetheart gathered up his briefcase and suit coat, each child yelling it louder than the next as they waited for it's echo back.  

My 6 year old kissed both my cheeks and my forehead before he left for school.  As he walked down the sidewalk he turned and flashed me the "I love you" sign he learned when his voice had failed him as a toddler.

My 12 year old and his best friend just left after enjoying a healthy lunch of chips and ice cream.  "I love you mom," he yelled over his shoulder as he jumped on his ripstick.

And that precious little voice that's yelling, "Mama?"  When I answer she swoons, "I love you."  Just her way of checking my whereabouts in the house throughout the day.

So can those three little words be overused?  

No.

I love them.

My aunt once said . . .

the only thing worse 

than having little fingerprints 

all over the house

is not having any at all.

I suspect she's right.

stop it

stopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopit

he's HOT in the kitchen

It was clearly stated in the seller's disclosure,  "Can't cook, can't sew, can't help future offspring with math homework . . ." and yet he still married me.

One evening I found him sewing a button on his temple pants.  It had been missing for months.  I guess he wanted his pants to stay up for the General Authority session he would be helping with the next day.  A few days later he was sitting at the kitchen table sewing an unraveled seam on his black suit.  I don't even know where he found the needle and thread.

And in the cooking realm?  The man is genius.  Better  yet, he ENJOYS cooking.  He has stacks and stacks of Cooking Light magazines that he sits at the counter thumbing through as if it were Sports Illustrated or Golf Digest.  He worked up the menu for this week, all recipes out of the afore mentioned magazine:  Maple-Glazed Salmon, Smothered Pork Chops with Thyme, Jack Quesadillas with Cranberry Salsa, Grilled Romaine with Blue Cheese Dressing . . .  Monday he whipped up Sauteed Chicken Breasts with Balsamic Vinegar Pan Sauce.  He even introduced the young ones to polenta for the first time.  

Last night I was determined to cook.  I even called our neighbor and offered to take dinner over.  I had just gathered all the needed ingredients when my sweetheart walked through the door.  He quickly changed out of his suit and got to business at the stove.  Oh well.  I had done more than usual to contribute to the evening meal.  I decided to make myself useful and ran to the store for some hot french bread.  I was surrounded by men who where picking up "this and that" for their wives.  

I smiled to myself . . . and hurried home to kiss the cook.

His Birthday wouldn't be complete

without the tradition

of sending his wishes

Heavenward

It's flapping in the wind

It's so loose that he can't even eat a Krispy Kreme donut.

It's making me crazy.

But we deserve it, right?

As Brandon and I sat in the adult session of Stake Conference Saturday evening we listened to our Stake President speak passionately about the need to free ourselves of debt.  It will be "crucial," he said.  I had to think about that, write it in my notes, circle it and star it.  "Ask yourselves if you need it.  If the answer is 'yes' then ask yourselves if you need it now."  Another entry into my notes, underline, underline.  He then proceeded to show a Saturday Night Live clip about debt starring Steve Martin.  When was the last time Brother Martin preached at your Stake Conference?!  Brilliant.

A few days prior Brandon and I had listened to an episode of "This American Life" on our journey home from Spring Break.  It was entitled "Bad Bank." Fifty minutes of Alex Bloomberg and NPR's Adam Davidson explaining today's Banking crisis in layman's terms.  Brandon fell asleep a quarter of the way in as this obviously wasn't news to him.  It was, although, news to me.  Terrifying news.  End of the world, how are we ever going to get ourselves out of this news.  As I began to understand the global banking crisis more fully my head began to spin and my breathing became shallow . . . much the same way I felt sitting in math class growing up.

The Global Banking crisis is one of those story problems that's impossible to solve.  The harder you work on it the more you feel your brain melting.  Federal Reserve Chairman, Ben Bernanke: "If we let the banking system fail, no one will talk about the Great Depression anymore because this will be so much worse."  

We want so badly to blame the banks for getting us into this mess.  Placing the blame elsewhere is always so comforting.  Professor David Beim suggests that the problem isn't the banking system, but us.  Household debt (cars, credit cards, mortgages) compared to the GDP (the nation's economic output) has historically been between 30 - 50%.  Between the years 2000 and 2008 household debt rose dramatically.  Our standard of living was going up and we were borrowing to make it happen.  Our household debt to GDP ratio now?  100%.  That's right.  We have incurred 13 trillion dollars worth of household debt.

We've seen that ratio one other time in history.

1929.

(The Great Depression, for those of you who aren't savvy on your History.)