Ah, summer

For a few blissful days, the whole family was together. Nina and Levi flew in from San Francisco, Syd and Scott drove from Oregon, and over the 4th, we were all in one spot for a few wonderful hours--all the siblings, spouses, the grandkids--and it was sweet. Dad had bought a slip-n-slide and the kids played on it for 3 hours straight without fighting once.

Nina and Levi had to go back home for work, but the following week the rest of the family, sans Karin and her bunch, went to the Weber State fireworks they do every year in July to celebrate the anniversary of the poor, hot, sweaty and pissed off pioneers as they walked into the valley and then puked about how barren it was. Naw, they were happy. But I would have puked. Probably because of the wagon movement more than anything. I'd have been one who walked the whole stinking way because of motion sickness.

ANYWAY, the fireworks were awesome, the kids were crazy and we had a grand old time people-watching. And I'm pretty sure we got to see everyone in attendance because we had a spot right across from the porta-potties. Thankfully, we were upwind. Anna and Abi picked the perfect spot the night before and spread out, like, 7 queen size blankets.

It was interesting, though, and my sisters and I felt it (and probably my brother, too) that this year we really missed my mom. She was there as such a looming presence that wasn't really there. And she hadn't been to the fireworks in years because she'd been so sick. Plus, the heat made her swell up like a balloon. But when we were kids--holy crap, the month of July was almost as big a deal as Christmas. Food, parties, fireworks in front of the house for the 4th (before the fire restrictions), red-white-blue decor everywhere and the flag flying proudly on the front porch. And for some reason, this year was...hard. We just miss her.

But enough with the maudlin--she'd be disgusted to find us wallowing--and tomorrow we head to Karin's house for July Birthday Festivus. And there will be the slip-n-slide. That many hours of non-fighting was sheer heaven. I only wish we could do it in the winter. :-)

A good deal!

My first Civil War novel, Faith of our Fathers: A House Divided, is on sale now for $2.99 on Kindle. Limited time, great deal!

Winter Wonderland

Oh mercy. Sitting at my dining room table, a foot of snow outside and it's still falling, watching my cute daughter take our cute Siberian Husky out in the fluffy white mess. The house is warm and cozy and I'm surrounded by things I love. What a beautiful moment--may I never forget it.

In Which I Verbally Vomit...

I grow weary of extremes.

I like to walk down the middle of the road. I like looking at the scenery on either side of me. Sometimes I venture to the right because I like something I see over there, and then there are times when I stroll over to the left because something I see there resonates and makes sense. And in the middle of the road where I walk, I find a comfortable, beautiful blending of the two. I suspect there are a lot of people like me, but we are not often the voices that speak the loudest.

Being a Mormon now, a faithful, church-going, calling-holding member is a very interesting thing. A great majority of the body of the Church is politically conservative. That leaves the minority defined as liberal. But what of those of us who stroll down the middle and like it there? Sometimes it feels like a very lonely place, because opinions tend to be so incredibly polarized. And the implication is often that if your views aren’t completely committed to either one side or the other, you’re an idiot. Or a faithless rebel. Or a bigot. 

When the early Church members made their trek west to settle in Utah, it wasn’t as though that had been everyone’s first dream. I know, let’s move all of us, many of whom will die, across this barren wasteland and settle in a really ugly place with a large body of useless salt water smack in the middle.  (Which is now very pretty, actually, because they planted a lot of stuff—thank you, ancestors.) They were driven out of the U.S. That’s why they left. 

They were murdered—children, even—tortured, raped, robbed, their homes burned to the ground on top of them, their temples desecrated, their printing presses destroyed, their belongings pawed through and stolen after they were forced to flee. And there was an “Extermination Order” in Missouri, which made it legal to kill a Mormon. They were treated in a way—in the United States—that would spark horror in the minds and hearts of most of us today. 

In 2000, my editor asked me if I’d be interested in writing a Civil War series with an LDS perspective. So I wrote about the war and placed one of my characters—an LDS convert—in the middle of it, along with parallel stories about other family members and friends in different parts of the country. I also wrote about a family of slaves who were literate, and their struggles throughout the process.  I dared to include a bi-racial marriage and a whole lot of drama throughout four volumes.

The research I did, which was extensive and exhausting, led me to some impressions that still stick with me. The first was that literacy is the key to freedom. How do you enslave a large portion of a population? You don’t allow them education in any way, shape or form. Another impression that remains with me is an understanding of the bitterness and weariness most of the early LDS church members felt toward the country that had forced them out because of religious intolerance.  

These are but two of the lessons I took away from the experience, and they’ve come back to roost with me in a frustrating way this election year. To preface this, I need to explain that I am an unapologetic member of my faith. I also appreciate the “liberal” Joanna Brooks, author of Book of Mormon Girl, and the viewpoint she represents—most of which I agree with. She’s well-spoken and bright, and I like her. She says many things that resonate with me very deeply. 

In writing the Civil War series, I was steeped in research about bigotry, and to be an unapologetic member of an organization that is now characterized as “bigoted,” I find horrifying. It does not sit well with me. As much as I would like to distance myself from that concept in any way, shape or form, I stand by my testimony of my faith and draw strength from personal, spiritual experiences I’ve had that keep me attending church week after week.  

But frankly, what I do care if two people who love each other are legally married? I don’t. How, then, to reconcile that with religion, one you absolutely cannot reject or deny, or risk lying to yourself? The answer is, for me, that I stay prayerful, and close to a God who loves his children. I remain patient and watchful, and take comfort in the fact that He is very much aware of what we do down here and that all questions are answered in time. And when I listen to people who profess to be Christians, both in my church and without, who are so incredibly hateful in their speech and actions, I remind myself that we are not perfect. That my testimony of my faith is not based on its members. We are, however, here to learn and grow and love. (Kumbaya, I know. I’ve already heard it.) But Christ, during his recorded lifetime, preached a gospel of love, not hate.  In fact, the only time he was angry was when people were using His Father’s house to cheat. This tells me that despite what we may believe, collectively or individually, about people whose lives are different than our own, we damn well better be nice about it. 

And as to the other thing—the weary early Church member thing—I feel that in spades. Now no, I certainly have not been cruelly driven from my home by a stampede of lawless ignorants. Nor have I personally felt the barbs of prejudice because I am a Mormon. But wow, I’m tired. Tired of reading news reports whose authors don’t even bother to get the facts straight. (It’s not a Steak, it’s a Stake, and it represents a geographical collection of Wards, or congregations—again organized geographically. Kind of like schools within a school district. A Stake President is not a position of extreme authority over the entire body of the Church. Women in the Church are not kept barefoot in the kitchen. We can read and have college degrees and were voting in our church meetings before the rest of the country’s women were constitutionally allowed to. And maybe if you would like to know more about us, you should ask someone who is actually a member, not a professor of a student who once was, or a friend of a friend who used to have a Mormon neighbor.)

My issue of Time Magazine came in the mail with Mit Romney’s face on it, talking about how his mind works, and it was all I could do to bring it in the house. I just didn’t want to read anything else about how odd we are, or how imperfect our LDS history is, the mistakes we’ve made, or the incongruity between being a religion and a capitalistic “money making empire.”

And because Mit Romney is the Republican candidate and a Mormon, the two have become inextricably linked, in many minds. Which is frustrating for me, because the Republican Party is not The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  Church leadership repeatedly makes public statements about its stance as politically neutral. On Facebook, on the Church website, and from the pulpit. Do many of our LDS ideals fall in line with conservative principles? Certainly. But…wait for it…there are also gospel principles to be found on the left side of the road. 

Speaking in sweeping generalities, I like the compassionate vibe I feel from the Democratic Party. There’s a level of love and acceptance within it that I find, on the surface at least, lacking on the Right. Still speaking in the most general of terms and in relation to the Republican Party, I’ve seen the value of self-reliance, of gaining an education and relying on one’s own efforts, intellect and abilities to make a better life for one’s family. The level of self-esteem that grows from these accomplishments is visible, vital and crucial, and I’ve seen it work to the betterment of people’s lives, specifically single moms I had the opportunity to work with some years ago as they earned their GEDs and climbed out of the “system.” 

As an LDS writer in a tightly-knit community of fellow LDS writers, I’ve found several similarities among many of us who walk down the middle of the road. J.Scott Savage said once that he is more liberal than most of his LDS friends, and more conservative than most of his friends who are not LDS. This holds very true for me, as well. I have a barrage of extremism on either side of the political aisle assaulting me when I log on to Facebook. I. Am. So. Tired. Of. Political. Messages. On. Facebook. I have news for you, my friends. Republicans do not hate gay people. Democrats are not Satan.

Last election year, a fellow writer and friend of mine, Annette Lyon, posted a commentary on her blog proclaiming her blood to be “purple,” or rather a blending of red and blue. This rang so true to me I felt emotional about it. It’s ok to see both sides of an issue. It doesn’t mean you’re weak, or spineless, or unprincipled. It means…you see both sides of an issue. I believe things are very rarely all black or all white. I suspect those with personalities opposite mine (I’m a Myers-Briggs ENFP, because I know you were wondering) would argue with me on that point. 

And so as I continue to peruse Facebook and see links to articles about Mormons, and memes depicting both Romney and Obama as horned devils, I console myself with this thought: 2013 is not an election year, and we’re almost there! Praise whatever deity you worship! Or not. :-)

Missing my mom

Little things, like Mythbusters ads. Books. Everywhere, I see her in books. My tablecloths she made when I was little. The Norwegian decor all over my house. The pewter candlesticks I could kill someone with. The sweaters. Oh, the sweaters. The obituary on the fridge I should probably take down, because every time I look at it I'm thrown into that funky parallel universe where everything is slightly off.

She was, is, a force of nature. That woman is one amazing piece of work. I want to call her. I want to kiss her soft cheek.

On the way home from Storymakers 2012

My mom died on May 3, 2012, and with the support of my family, I attended the Storymakers writers conference anyway. It was two days of blissful fog with wonderful friends and an awesome roommate. I was completely distracted and I now realize what a blessing that was, because reality came crashing back down quickly enough.

ANYWAY, the 2nd night of the conference (which was after the Whitney Awards, one of which I was nominated for but lost to a dear friend, so it's ok) my awesome roommate's husband picked her up and my husband took her place, so we had a nice evening together. The next day on the drive home, I was reminded of why I laugh so much with him. It went something like this:

I plug in my iphone and start my shuffling playlist for our listening pleasure.
Mark: You're older than I am. Just so you know.
Me: What?
Mark: Phil Collins? That's like easy listening.
Me: It is not. It's retro.
Mark: He was easy listening back when he was big.
Me: Fine. We'll skip it.
Mark: What is THAT?
Me: It's Il Divo. The hot opera guys Simon Cowell put together.
I turn the volume up.
Me: How does that not give you chills?
Mark: What? I'm sorry! I can't hear you--there are too many people yelling in here. And if this is what we have to listen to in heaven, you'll have to find someone else.
Me: Pffft.  Whatever. Here.
Mark: Ok, that's better. Queen I can listen to in heaven. pause I'm pretty sure Freddy Mercury isn't there, though.
Me: Hey! We don't know that!
Mark: I'm pretty sure he had sex with animals.
Me: sputtering We don't know why, we don't know what he was dealing with...
Mark: It was that overbite.
Me: For crying out loud.
Phone rings. It's Anna.
Mark: We're on our way home right now.
Anna: Why aren't you answering your phone!?!
Mark: We stopped for a snack and I must not have heard my phone in my pocket.
Anna: It's Sunday. You guys are hypocrites.
Mark: We're on the road.
Anna: Anyway, you can call Bestie and tell him you're going to be late for dinner, because I'm not going to.
Mark: Anna, we're not going to be late. We're on our way home right now.
Anna: Whatever! Mom said you would be home an hour ago.
Mark: I did not tell Mom to say that.
Me: Anna, I'm sorry. I didn't know.
Anna hangs up in a huff. I am afraid.
Me: Ah, here we go.
The dulcet tones of Sting waft through the car.
Mark: eye roll
Song shifts to "No Stars" by Figures on a Beach
Mark: Who is this? No, don't tell me.
Me: You'll never guess it.
Mark: Yes I will. Ok, who is it?
Me: Figures on a Beach.
Mark: blank, flat expression.
I'm not surprised, because it's off a sample album "Just Say Yo" I listened to ad nauseum in the early 90s. He didn't much care for it then, either. Was also irritated that I overplayed Toad the Wet Sprocket's "Walk on the Ocean" in those days.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes...

*Nina is married. Her last name is McConnell, which is very syllabically pleasing to the ear. Her inlaws are wonderful.

*She and her cute husband, Levi, used Target gift cards to buy groceries. Yes! She's learned to be practical.

*Anna has moved into Nina's "suite" of rooms. Posters of Jersey Shore and Men in Black have replaced Michael Jackson and Heath Ledger's frightening Joker face.

*Gunder wants to know when he can move into Anna's old room. And he's getting tall and I could swear I smelled B.O. on him the other day. *sob*

*My mom has dementia and I have eaten my weight in chocolate in the past six months.

*Which now makes me weigh a lot more.

*I look like Marie Osmond before Nutri System.

*I adore books but also love my Kindle. That makes me fickle.

*I read Soule Mama's blog and get teary. I want to restore a little old farm in Maine. With sheep I can shear and use the wool to knit my family sweaters. And possibly pants.

*I regret not keeping a better journal when my girls were little. I blinked and they grew up.

*Kitty is likely on her way to the executioner soon. She's old, and the smell of cat urine on Mark's clothes was the last straw. I told him he's not allowed to pay Levi to cap her in the head, quick and painless though it might be. I also told him he's not allowed to take her up to Huntsville and just let her loose. I called the Humane Society... Drat. She's my first real pet.

*Moving into life's next season...grown kids (well, minus the 7 year old), picking the writing career back up and fully dusting it off, taking on editing clients and loving my career. The day after the wedding, Mark wrote on my white board, "Round 2."

*Round 2 indeed. Pulling up my bootstraps. (Whatever the hell those are.)

Overheard on the way...

So carpool the other morning went something like this:

Gunder's friend: If I had a magic wand, I'd wave it and make all the girls bald.
Gunder: Have you ever seen a bald girl?
Friend: No
Gunder: Dude, it sucks. It's really horrible. You don't want to make all the girls bald.

And in other news, Nina is getting married to a very sweet guy who has an awesome family. Thanks to her future mother-in-law, I am not going completely insane trying to nail down details for this shindig. She's amazing and I bow down to her expertise and her inventory, as she was a wedding planner in a former life. I must have done something right, somewhere.

Anna is nearing the end of her junior year and wishing she could be done already. Can't say I blame her- she's one of a gajillion kids who hate school. Her pottery skills are amazing, though- I'm not going to let her drop out because I want her to make me some more stuff. Well, and plus there's always that whole you-can-get-a-better-job-with-a-diploma thing. Not to mention college.

It's snowing right now, in a way I would very much have enjoyed on Christmas Eve. Given the fact that I woke up this morning with a migraine, however, and am so overjoyed that it's gone now, I don't care if it snows until May.

My third book in the Isabelle Webb series is nearly done and I have a fun new project on the horizon that I CAN'T WAIT to sink into. Writing is a love/hate thing for me. I'm always amazed at how hard it is to make myself sit down and do it, only to feel euphoric when I finish a really good writing session. Accounting would be a wiser profession, I think. 2 plus 2 always equals 4. Plot plus characters does not always a good story make.

Grrrr!

Want!

Source: bluepueblo.tumblr.com via Anna on Pinterest

Halloweenish 2011!

I am so in love with Halloween. It brings in the season that my family and I love most. I love the crisp air and the fresh smell. I love the beautiful fall colors. I love the fact that my air conditioner is no longer running.

These are some of our fun October memories this year.



The makings of taco soup, our favorite fall meal. Except for the ground beef, which was cooking on the stove and still looked raw and gross.


Western Day for Red Ribbon Week!


Har! Crazy Hat Day!


Anna and Alex. Pumpkin time!


Gunder considers his options.


Abi sacrifices her hands to the pumpkin guts.


Aw yeah! Jengo Fett and Luke Skywaker. They are the cutest friends together and I love that they have so much fun. This was taken right before I dropped the boys off at a Halloween party that had all the makings of a fabulous time but which ended up freaking out Gunder after he walked, sobbing, through the spook alley. When I picked them up from the party, Luke Skywalker told me that if he had walked through with Gunder, he would have told him to stay away from the "biting place." I almost started sobbing, myself, at that point. (*disclaimer* The party was thrown by a wonderful classmate's equally wonderful mother, and my poor son has his mother's horrible imagination that occasionally has a hard time differentiating between real and make-believe. I was also assured the children were not bitten.)

Trick-or-treating last night was awesome. We did the trunk or treat at the church parking lot and then hit a few houses on our street. Finished the night off at my sister's house with bowls of my brother-in-law's famous and utterly delectable chili and a viewing of "Sleepy Hollow," which never fails to delight. (The Tim Burton one, not the cartoon, although I do love the cartoon as well.) It's hard to go wrong with Johnny Depp and Christopher Walken.

And just because:


"Sleepy Hollow" brings to mind images of classic Tim Burton. The dark scenes, everything blueish--the gross orange blood that spurts everywhere. Very "Sweeny Todd." Which also brings to mind the time my husband went with a friend of his to see "Sweeny Todd." ("Dude, did you know this was a musical?")

Talents--what are they, really?

Recent discussions with friends got me thinking on the subject of talents--we've probably all heard it before but I think, as women especially, we need reminders.

The scriptures tell us that we are all blessed with talents, diverse and varied, and we are expected to do something with them. A few years ago, I was involved in my ward's Enrichment Night celebration of talents. There were a wide array of us, sharing the things we'd accomplished and basking in the glow. We had a combination of writers, artists and composers.

There was a problem.

I heard later that one of the sisters told her husband she'd never attend another meeting like that one because she came away feeling like such a loser. According to her own assessment, she couldn't write, draw, paint or compose music. Ergo, no talent.

This couldn't be farther from the truth.

Not all talents produce a physical, tangible product. A loving Father has blessed us with talents both outwardly impressive and quietly crucial. Drawing on experiences of women I know, I'm going to show you what I mean.

Woman "A" is a stay-at-home mom with three beautiful kids. She's younger than I am and really has her stuff together. She has a testimony but knows how to relate in the "world," to find joy in the world. Her children are smart, the house is amazingly decorated, she cans food, knits beautifully (and learned only last year!) and gives attention to her callings while still maintaining an awesome homefront. She does these things on a shoestring budget as her husband finishes grad school. She knows who she is and is comfortable in her own skin. She's also incredibly funny and sarcastic. This makes me love her even more.

Woman "B" is dependable, gracious, lovely and generous to a fault. She cares for others despite her own illnesses. She volunteers, serves, takes care of family, delivers beautiful fireside messages, writes roadshows, and often crashes when it's all said and done because her body often can't keep up with her spirit. Now granted, she is a writer and that's one of those talents we're not discussing here, but take away the writing piece and she's still one of the most amazing people I know.

Woman "C" is one of the most beautiful and glamorous people I know in real life. She has four gorgeous kids and a gorgeously decorated home. She is put together at all times, in all things and in all places. Her attention to detail is second to none and her taste is impeccable. She is also one of the most genuinely nice people I know. I mean NICE. The first time I met her she was new in the ward and came to visit teach me with her companion. I made a snap judgment upon first clapping eyes on her, only to have it dissolve within the first five minutes of conversation. I've known her for years and that has never changed. She is genuine, classy, smart, funny and so very kind. She is more beautiful on the inside, even, that trust me, that's saying something.

Woman "D" has five children and she and her husband want one more. She is runs a home of delightfully chaotic organization and is an awesome mom. She plays with her kids, she is calm about spills, she loves her current role and is doing a darn good job with it. Having so many children and running an efficient house are skill sets that I do not possess. I have only three children, two of which are nearly adults, and I still can't find socks or a room in my house that's consistently tidy and organized.

I could go on with women "E" through "Z," but I hope you see where I'm going with this. Kindness is a talent. Organizational skills are a talent. Amazing church and community service, that is a talent. As are the following: compassion, dedication, dependability, charity, a strong work ethic, humble spirituality, seeking for and attaining knowledge, the ability to make others smile, a good grasp of life's priorities, etc.

Those talents that aren't so easily visible in terms of outward appearance are those I refer to as "quietly crucial." They are the crux of life, for they almost always mean some sort of service to others, whether in the community or within the walls of our own homes. Love is usually the root motivator, and love is pure.

Now. Let's say you've always wanted to be a photographer. Or to learn to sew. Or write poetry or your life story. Your life story in poem form. Just because you didn't leave the womb as an expert in these areas, does that mean you shouldn't try? I believe that we should spend a lifetime examining and reaching for talents we may not even know we have. We should do what we can to learn about the topic and then not be afraid to try it.

Woman "A" I mentioned above learned to knit last year. She is amazingly good at it. And we have another friend who is THAT MUCH MORE amazingly good at it, and she also just learned how to knit last year. So let's say we have me, we'll call me "good." We'll call Woman "A" "better," and we'll call Amazing Knitting Prodigy Woman "best." Does this mean I don't have a talent for knitting. No. What it means is that if I want to continue to grow and develop this talent, I must work at it. Just because my talent doesn't have me at the top of that particular game doesn't mean I don't have the talent for it.

Talents take work. With the possible exception of Mozart, I've not heard of anyone whose talents didn't require practice and honing. And truthfully, Mozart certainly progressed throughout his life--he didn't write Eine Kleine Nachtmusik at the age of 8. (Although he did write other music that I can't begin to replicate at the age of 8. Let's not talk about him anymore.)

In the New Testament we find the Parable of the Talents. One man did amazing things with his, the second man did good things with his, and the third man buried his talent. Talents, in this story, refer to currency, but the point is the same. If we bury it, it stays as it is and is of benefit to nobody--not family or friends, and not ourselves. Certainly not to our Father, who gave us those talents in the first place.

I have homework for you. Your job tonight (or tomorrow night, or anytime this week you have a few free minutes, but for sure before Sunday) is to make a list of your talents. I'm not talking about the ones that produce something tangible. First you start with you, and you list the things you ARE. Then continue the list and write down those things you produce. Maybe you're really good at canning or gardening. Maybe you can put together an awesome scrapbook. Maybe you read the newspaper front to back each day and can tell me exactly what's going on in Libya. Perhaps you know how to sew aprons on a machine. Perhaps you can give one heck of a presentation to your boss and colleagues, with or without the Powerpoint. Maybe you're the one in the office who remembers everybody's birthdays or notices when someone is down and you buy them an African Violet. Unless it's a man who's down...you buy him a chocolate doughnut.

You keep this list in your journal, and if you don't have a journal, you grab a notebook or staple some computer paper together and start one. And perhaps on the other side of this list, you will write down a few things you'd like to do, a few talents you'd like to grow. We may have talents buried that need digging up.

Grab a shovel!

The Happiest Place on Earth

Not much longer until we have a fabulous family vacation and I'm so looking forward to it. We are absolute Disney geeks. Pictures soon will follow. :-)

Sometimes Motherhood Works

My heart is so full, and has been for the past couple of weeks. Thanks to participation in an ATC program, Nina is already graduated from high school! Words cannot express how much joy and pride I feel in her accomplishments. She has worked hard, has not always (hardly ever) enjoyed that hard work, and I hope I've expressed to her how proud I am to be her mother.

Anna transferred to Ogden High and is happy. I've never seen her so happy. She has a very sweet best friend. She just got her grades in the mail the other day--ripped open the envelope and stuck it on the fridge. She is proud, and we are delighted. All A's, two B+'s. She has always been my Annabelle, snuggly and feisty and fun. It is a joy to be her mother.


Gunder brings home 100% scores pretty consistently on his PRE-tests for both Math and Language Arts. He's reading more every day. At PTCs, his teacher told me how well he is doing, and I am so pleased. He also just finished a wrestling class that Mark's been taking him to at the high school, where his coach and older fellow wrestlers are so incredibly patient with a little guy who very much wants to be a big, cool guy. He has melted my heart from the first moment I heard his heart beat, and I have been enchanted with him ever since. I so love being his mother.

Sometimes motherhood sucks. Sometimes it's the hardest thing in the world, and it's no mystery why some species choose to eat their young in the nest. Children take the best we have to offer and suck us completely dry. We worry, we fret, we steam and stew, we swear, we get murderous, we lose brain cells from the moment we first bring them home from the hospital or the birth mom.

And it is the most glorious of gifts. The love a mother feels for a child goes beyond all comprehension. It defies description. Sometimes you just grab and kiss them, amidst a flurry of protestations and noises of distress. You look at them when they're scrubbed and clean, even when they're 18 and 16, scrubbed and clean, and feel a connection, a sense of overwhelming emotion. You remember when you brought them home and you think that maybe the loss of a few brain cells isn't such a bad thing.

My heart and my joy are so full.

Book bigamy? Why yes, thank you, I will indulge.

So I got a Kindle for Christmas.

I know. I know! But I love it, I do. It's been the most amazingly fun toy I've received in a long time. I have a gazillion books at my fingertips and if I'm not in the mood for the one I was reading last night, hey, I can switch at the push of a button.

I swore I'd remain a purist, and I did, for a long time. But I've found, to my delight, that there's room for both ebooks and the real physical thing in my heart. For books that I don't really care to own but do want to read, the Kindle is great. What's more, I can put it in my purse and read any old thing I want while waiting in line, waiting in the car, waiting...waiting...waiting...

But for those books whose mere physical makeup is a work of art, in whom I must underline, ponder, turn pages and smell, those are the books I will still enjoy owning and buying. I confess, I was a bit worried at first because I fell so in love with my Kindle, and so quickly, that I wouldn't care about going book browsing anymore...(What? What?)

But I went to lunch with some of my favorite author friends the other day--well, ok, I'll name drop-- Jennie Hansen, Kerry Blair, Gale Sears and Cheri Crane, and after chatting and laughing, we went to Barnes and Noble because sweet Kerry wanted to buy my newest book so I could sign it for her. She made a fuss in the store as I signed her book ("It's such a good thing the author is right here to sign this for me! There are a couple more on the shelf; you'd better grab them soon...") and I was blushing and laughing.

The thing that I loved so much about being in the store, though, was the euphoria I felt looking at all of the new releases--the artwork, the fonts, the covers, the smell. It was as though an old lover had taken me back despite my infidelity. I was in heaven.

I bought Sarah Ban Breathnach's Peace and Plenty, Cheri Priest's awesome steampunk, The Boneshaker, and the most recent issue of Writer's Digest magazine, which is my favorite writer's reference of all.

It was delightful and heady and I felt like a very happy bigamist as I rode home on the train with my Kindle in my purse and Sarah's new book open in my lap. The experience would have been utter bliss if I hadn't fallen asleep as I was trying to read, which is no reflection on the book, itself. It was the lull of the blasted train.

Good thing I wasn't driving. :-)

A Real Dad

So my dad is a therapist, and a good one. It was nice to have one on hand for all of those traumatic, hormonal teen years. I was always a daddy's girl-absolutely adored him-and probably still am, truth be told. Today is his birthday and I'm thinking about an experience that's taught me something about parenting.

I am the oldest of five kids, and when I was a teenager, naturally, I slept in. One of those Saturdays, my dad decided to take my younger siblings downtown on the bus, because they'd never ridden it before. (I, of course, opted to sleep in instead.) The story goes as follows, and I wish I would have witnessed it personally. They took the bus downtown, ate some breakfast, had to run to catch a connecting bus, for which my dad was glad because everyone should have the experience of having to run for the bus, and had a grand old time riding around town. My younger sister, who was probably 10 at the time, said, "Dad, today you're being a REAL dad."

We all laugh about that, and as a therapist and professor of Child and Family Studies, my dad often reflected on that whole "real dad" concept. In my sister's mind, the extra time spent doing something fun made for such a rich experience.

It's easy to get stuck in the rut of daily, mundane duties that must be done. The dishes and laundry don't do themselves, the toys won't pick themselves up, etc. But there are those times when I play a board game with my son or hang out with my daughters that make for the "real mom" moments. It doesn't have to involve a lot, or any, money. What it does require is time. That can be hard, unless you carve it out of an already full day, and make it a priority, even if only for a short time.

Happy Birthday to my dad, who is amazing and wonderful and such a Real Dad. Love you much.

What is it about mornings?

So Jules drops off Alex this morning and two minutes later, knocks on the door again. She stands there looking at me for a minute and then says, "Nevermind." She was going to ask for a diaper wipe because she sat in Alex's juice in the car, but then realizes the damage is too extensive and she'll have to go home and change. As she turns around to leave, I see an enormous wet spot. I figure it is an omen for the morning.

I go to wake up Gunder, who has had Too Much Thanksgiving. (See the Berenstain Bears Too Much Birthday.) He is still trying to recover from the freedom and unabashed joy of vacation from school and he is losing the battle. He has a hard time getting up, and my gentle prodding and kisses on his cheeks aren't doing it. I realize I'm not going to be able to bribe him every day, like I did yesterday, with a new toy if he'll just get moving and be a big boy. I'll go broke, and have one extremely spoiled kid. Well, more spoiled, anyway.

The clock is ticking, so I finally drag him downstairs with a blanket where he sits on the couch, rolled up in a ball. He migrates to the heater vent and I try to muscle him into his clothes. He screams that they're too cold to put on, and I feel an aneurysm coming on because the heat is blasting me in the face and I'm ready to Vesuvius. I ponder on the fact that I should have started waking him up about two hours earlier.

I get myself dressed, and looking at the cold and snow outside, decide to put on my snazzy new black boots. The only problem is that the teenage girls have informed me that I need to tuck my pants into them. I have told them that all my jeans are boot cut, that I don't wear skinny jeans, a fact for which they should thank me daily. They tell me to peg the boot cuts. I've already done the pegging. It was in the 80s when I was on the cutting edge of fashion.

With a shrug, I peg the pants. It looks...passable. I've cooled off, now that I'm no longer standing in the heater vent's direct line of fire, and realize I need a sweater. I throw on the Mrs. Weasley sweater Nina makes fun of, and a baseball cap because my hair is atrocious. I avoid the scarf, which I love, but generally makes me gag in the morning. (Thank you, Grandma Campbell, for the lovely genes.)

Gunder doesn't want his usual apple or Gogurt for breakfast, and Alex suggests cinnamon toast, to which Gunder reluctantly agrees. By now, it's five minutes away from departure and Gunder is still missing socks and shoes. I make the toast and throw it at the boys, stuff Gunder's feet into his socks and shoes, turn around to grab the coats only to realize that Gunder has kicked off his shoes because his feet "feel weird."

I sit on the couch with an inhuman growl and tell him it's just the socks bunching up. He tears up a little and says he's sorry, and I look at his puffy, bloodshot eyes and my heart breaks. I want to tell him he never has to go to school again, that I'll homeschool him and that no woman in the world will ever love him more than his mother. Instead, I kiss him, rub his face a little, and then shove his feet back into the shoes. I tell him that when he walks, he won't notice the socks. (Which we all know is a lie.)

We get out to the car, and it's, oh, 9 degrees outside. Yesterday, Mark cleaned off my car and warmed it up for me before he left for work. Today there's no new snow, and I'm sure he figured I could manage the warming up part by myself. He didn't take into account the fact that I, also, have had Too Much Thanksgiving.

Gunder shivers as he tries to buckle himself in while I get Alex into his carseat. Alex tells me he's hot, and I tell him he isn't. He insists he's hot, and I look at his red cheeks, realizing he probably is. The kid has an inner furnace like no other. Being hot makes him livid. By now, Gunder is shivering so much he's getting a good workout. He has zero body fat.

We pick up Jonas, and I put him and the carseat into the way back by Gunder, because the three of them don't like being squished together in the middle row. Check that. GUNDER doesn't like being squished in the middle row. As I buckle Jonas in, the fumes from the exhaust make their way into the car, and the boys all begin to gag. I tell them to stop it. At least it's warm.

My snazzy new boots are useless against the cold. They are content being just snazzy.

Gunder's mood improves as we get underway. Jonas tells him jokes and Alex is singing some ditty about farm animals. The line at the school is about 20 miles long. I tell the boys to sit tight and we make our way to the drop off point in front of the school. Rather than slow traffic further, I tell the boys to get ready to unbuckle and climb over the seat to the middle row, where they can open the door themselves and get out. They laugh themselves silly, which escalates to cackling and then maniacal screaming as they flail about, arms, legs and backpacks everywhere.

They stumble and fall out of the car, with Alex calling for Gunder to tell him goodbye. Gunder tries to slam the door, but a Huggies diaper wipe container is in the way. He throws the container back in while I yell at him to tell Alex goodbye. He shuts the door with a quick, "Goodbye, Alex!" and he and Jonas walk to the door together like the cool 6 and 7 year-olds they are.

On the way home, Alex drops his toy car and has a meltdown, wanting me to get it for him RIGHT NOW. I pull into the Conoco drive-up window and order a 44 oz decaff Diet Coke, cursing the fact that I have a psychological addiction to a cold beverage. I am grateful, however, that it is void of calories, otherwise I would be as wide as a barn door. At least I've kicked the caffeine, which makes my heart a-fib. My sister who works at the hospital tells me it's not actually a-fibbing, it's PVCs, which does me no good because all I can visualize with that are white plastic pipes.

We finally make it home, and when we get inside, Alex proves he has assimilated himself well by following in the fine Allen tradition of FREAKING OUT if something isn't working well. He can't get his coat off, and I did mention he hates being hot? He also has a spot on his pants which makes me nervous because he's been battling some nasty diarrhea the last few days.

All because Julie sat in the juice. ;-)

Some things you CAN take with you...

This week, I am grateful for books. Well ok, I’m always grateful for books. I am, without a doubt, a nerd of the first order, but as I know a lot of other people who love to read and writ--and I do hold them in high esteem--I figure I’m in good nerd company.

The reason it’s coming to mind so readily now, however, is because of a quote by Richard G. Scott that I came across a few days ago: “After this life, you will be restored to that which you have here allowed yourself to become.” This is wonderful—after we end our journey here, we will be restored to what we’ve worked on. Basically, it sounds to me like we get to pick up where we left off.

I’ve often heard the quote that runs something along the lines of “you can’t take it with you when you go,” and I’ve always taken that as two-fold. One, the physical trappings here on earth don’t amount to much when we’re dead, and two, since all I can take with me when I go is what I’ve managed to put into my head, I’d better stuff it as full as possible.

Enter real life. Life has a way of intruding on the best of intentions, and the time slips by more quickly every day. I tell myself I’m going to learn about this or that, make a study of some author I’ve been meaning to get to, and it just doesn’t seem to happen. But as much as I do love books, there are lessons to be learned from those real-life experiences that suck up all of our time. I figure if I can somehow sandwich in book time with living, I should be good to go.

This is such a fun time of year, and it’s a blessing, really, to take the time to actually count our blessings and be grateful for what we have. My list this year could probably stretch on for pages, and I think, in fact, that that’s exactly what I’ll do. I’m going to make a list of every little thing I am thankful for and see how long the list stretches.

I challenge you to do the same! Have a wonderful, wonderful Thanksgiving holiday.

SWEET!

My new cover! I have permission to spread it far and wide. This is my tenth novel, Isabelle Webb, The Pharaoh's Daughter. The release date is January, 2011, and for readers who were mad that there was so much time between this one, and Legend of the Jewel, you'll be happy to know that I'm working on the third and final book as we speak. I have no clue what the title is- for now I'm calling it Isabelle Webb, Crazy in Greece. :-)

So excited!

Monday morning dawns bright and chaotic.

So Julie arrives here at 7:20 with Alex in tow. Says he might have thrown up a bit in his bed while coughing last night, and his hair might smell like it. Ok, bye!

Gunder wants to stay in bed. He has huge circles under his eyes which makes me feel like a horrible mother.

I realized last night that before I made carpool arrangements with Peggy that I'd told Wendy I'd take her boys to school this morning. Not a big deal, but it bumps Jonas's pick-up time up about 10 minutes.

Alex has been riding in Gunder's car seat, and Gunder has been riding in the adult seat, which is very horrible of me. So I get Alex's car seat out of the garage and muscle it into the car- after having a massive tug-of-war with Gunder's car seat, which has been securely hooked into the metal things behind the seat. Safety and all.

Gunder is inside eating goldfish crackers for breakfast, because that's all he wants. I hurry him along, put on the shoes that are too small (but I don't beat myself up on this one too much because he has an identical pair that are the right size...somewhere) and drag him into the bathroom where I shove his head into the sink and wet his hair down. He screams and I yell that it's just a little water, for crying out loud.

I comb his hair back so he looks like a gangsta from the 20s. His sisters, who have already left for school, would be mortified. I am glad they're not here to see it.

I remember I've already put Alex in the car and hurry Gunder out the door after slapping the correct size of shoes on his feet. Forget to brush his teeth, which is now making me cringe. He's sitting in school with fuzzy teeth. He's a fuzzy-toothed gantsta. But at least I remembered to wash his clothes last night and did get them ironed this morning.

We pick up Kord and Kade, who are looking clean and scrubbed, if somewhat tired. They climb into the car, and I let Kord sit in the front because he's now 13 and the airbag won't kill him if it deploys. Kade climbs into the middle by Alex, and I explain to the boys that he didn't really just throw up, it only smells like it. Yum. Going to school first thing in the morning in a car that smells like barf.

Gunder is sitting in the way-back, and we pick up Jonas, who joins him on his own little booster seat. Peggy is gracious about the fact that it's actually closer to 8 now, rather than the 7:50 I texted her about in a panic last night at 10:30. Gunder and Jonas are Kindergarten and 1st grade, respectively, and they begin telling knock-knock jokes that involve bananas, monkeys, eyes, noses...I draw the line when they begin peeing. I tell Kord that he should remember some of those awesome jokes to tell his friends. He looks at me with a half-smile and rubs his hands together, clearly cold because the windows are cracked to clear out the barf smell.

As we near the older boys' school, Kord tells me he hopes they go to the park and not rock climbing today because he forgot to have his mom sign the release for rock climbing and he really wants to go. Wendy and I have been the closest of friends for years, and I remember when Kord was born. I figure that makes us close, and I offer to sign the release form for Wendy- we both have pretty handwriting- so he can rock climb if it turns out that's what they're doing today. He looks dejected. The release form is in his locker, and I have given him only enough time to get to class before the bell rings. He can't run the form back out to me to sign, and besides, I'm not altogether certain he's comfortable with the idea anyway.

I drop off Kord, remind him to tuck in his shirt (The kids all wear uniforms. I know. We're mean moms.) He says he will and leaves. I swing around to drop Kade off at the intermediate building, where he hops out of the car without a backward glance, likely relieved to be away from barf-boy, who calls him "Cave."

I swing down the street to drop the little guys off at the elementary building. Jonas is telling Gunder something I can't hear because Alex heard "Life is a Highway" playing on the radio and wanted me to turn it up louder. ("Mack and McQueen!") I hear Gunder telling Jonas, "Well, that's a rip-off!" Jonas looks at him like he's from Mars. Gunder says, "They used the wrong building plans, then!"

I am too tired to sort it out, curious though I am. I pull into the congested side-street next to the school and help the boys get out of the back. I help Jonas down, which seems to offend him very much. I try to help Gunder down but he tells me he can do it himself. He jumps down and I barely get a kiss. They take off running for the front door, backpacks flying, with me yelling at them to be good and remember the rules. If I thought they were old enough to be embarrassed by it, I'd also yell for them to look forward to scripture study after school. This works great with my girls.

I maneuver my way out of the obnoxious SUV zoo in my obnoxious SUV and head for home. Pick up a Diet Coke on the way, and when Alex asks for a Sprite, I tell him we need to be healthy and I'll give him a glass of water at home. When we pull into the driveway, he talks me out of going for a walk. He says he doesn't want to, and frankly, neither do I.

We turn on Dora, which he unfortunately loves these days, and I slice him an apple to eat with his goldfish crackers. He also wants some cinnamon toast, and I feel good about the fact that at least one of the little boys got a fairly good-size breakfast this morning.

I slice myself some strawberries to go with my divine Diet Coke, proud that I'm eating strawberries and not Doublestuff Oreos for breakfast. Just to make sure I don't feel too good about myself, though, I sprinkle a little sugar on top of them. Humility is a virtue, after all.

:-)

Bittersweet

Bittersweet heart today- my daughter, Nina, is on the mend. She's had a nasty bout of viral pneumonia and is finally on the upswing. We're glad, because she's begun her senior year and starting her final high school swim season. Well, that's not the only reason we're glad she's getting better, but it's important.

I'm looking forward to the meets, long as they are, because I often get to sit with Wendy and yak up a storm, something we are both very good at. I also like the down time away from the little boys, darling as they are. Most of the time, meets are fun for me. (Except the one last year at Viewmont- I had a head cold and thought I was going to implode between the noise and all the chlorine in the air. That and the fact that I suddenly looked at my beautiful daughter's beautiful stroke through the water and thought to myself...Hey, wait a minute! I don't want her to get a scholarship somewhere. I don't want her to move away from me. I want her to stay forever in my house, leaving her stuff all over the place and staying up way too late, clanking her dishes around in the kitchen and making her dad and I wonder if we should just come right out and tell her she needs to get to her room for the night so we can at least make out in peace.)

Anna is fun and is getting more fun, more tender, more responsible as the days go by. We are enjoying her so much. By the time she's ready to leave home, I'm sure I'll find it a struggle to keep that stiff upper lip stiff.

And yet today, I have the word "Love" written on my arm in pink ink with a heart around it in tribute to suicide awareness week and in honor of my friend, Catina, who lost her daughter to suicide last year. I am in love with my daughters, and I ache for Catina. And yet I also am so glad that Catina has her sweet Antonio and Maia, that motherhood still keeps her busy. As I looked at my arm a while ago, the ink got all blurry and I felt my eyes burn. Strange. I thought I had cried all my tears for Abbey last year when it happened.

Our souls are eternal. Love is eternal. Our Heavenly Parents and Savior are eternal. We lift each other, and sometimes we are the ones who need lifting. And don't we all have people in our lives for whom we would gladly take all the pain? I suppose that when we hurt for other people we aren't necessarily lightening their load, but perhaps there is comfort in commiseration, in companionship. It takes a village, that I firmly believe, and not only to raise a child, sometimes just to make it through life as an adult.

I'm grateful for my village and all the wonderful people in it. I'm glad for moments that cause me to reflect on it.