A Musing Mother 6

This year in Sunday School we are studying the Old Testament. In my own quirky way, I enjoy the Old Testament immensely. I have discovered oh-so-many things that aren't taught at church about prophets of old (Lot, David, Solomon, to name a few) and was immediately cured of any desire for soap operas or trashy novels. But that's not my subject today. Brother and Sister A. were teaching, as they usually do. Sister A (Julie) is one of those genuinely kind and good people. She has a pleasant voice and sweet tone. You know the kind. Brother A (Doug) has a baritone voice. He teaches with passion and conviction. His way is always right because, you see, he's a lawyer. He's a good person. For a lawyer. So Julie was discussing the creation and each creative period. God, Jehovah, Michael, dividing light from darkness, separating land from water, organizing matter, and clearly understanding the laws of physics, gravity, chemistry and biology. Then Adam was created, Eve arr

No matter how hard you try to get her to comb her hair, she won't - but she'll let someone else curl and crimp it at a party. On the other hand, check out what 14 year old girls do at parties when there aren't any guys around. And most importantly , if you aren't looking at someone and they lick your elbow, you won't feel it. You're trying to lick you elbow right now, aren't you?

For reasons I care not to disclose, I have been going to physical therapy. You know, you never get hurt doing something heroic like saving the world or being in the Peace Corp. Incidentally, my brother-in-law joined the Peace Corp and went to the Republic of Georgia where he bravely taught English. Unfortunately, he had to come home early. He needed surgery for pneumothorax (hole in his lung). How did he get this? Pre-existing condition. See what I mean? He came home for a minute, grabbed his suit and stated he had to tie up a few loose ends, flew back to Georgia (again, not the state of) and called his mother two weeks later to announce he'd gotten married. Her name is Leila and she is wonderful. But I digress... The physical therapist is a perky 30 year old who finds joy in inflicting pain upon others. At one moment I made a crack about the Six Million Dollar Man. She looked at me blankly. “You know, Lee Majors? He was bionic?” Again, blank look. “It was a t.v. show in the

Charles Plumb was a US Navy jet pilot in Vietnam. After 75 combat missions, his plane was destroyed by a surface-to-air missile. Plumb ejected and parachuted into enemy hands. He was captured and spent 6 years in a communist Vietnamese prison. He survived the ordeal and now lectures on lessons learned from that experience. One day, when Plumb and his wife were sitting in a restaurant, a man at another table came up and said, “You’re Plumb! You flew jet fighters in Vietnam from the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk. You were shot down!” “How in the world did you know that?” asked Plumb. “I packed your parachute,” the man replied. Plumb gasped in surprise and gratitude. The man pumped his hand and said, “I guess it worked!” Plumb assured him, “It sure did. If your chute hadn’t worked, I wouldn’t be here today.” Mariama Kallon was a typical teenager—excited about girlfriends, family, and boys. But what should have been one of the best

I went to the physical therapist yesterday. As I lay with my back exposed to the air and my face stretched by gravity between a slit in the table, a 17 year old technician came in. She pulled out the ultrasound machine and ran a wand around my back. I was enjoying the slight pressure and the silence when the tech, who was clearly nervous with silences asked, "So did you have a fun weekend?" Ah. A chatter. I have not been asked that question in a long time. Did I have fun this weekend? I wondered what her definition of fun would be. Did I go to a party, hit the slopes and snowboard or ski? Did I go to a concert or goof off with friends? Did I go to a basketball game or watch the People's Choice Awards? Did I hike in the mountains or rappel off cliffs? Did I make a trip to Disneyland or Sea World or hit the slots and tables in Vegas or Wendover? Did I see a movie at the IMAX or shop until I dropped? I did none of these things. Instead I participated in my oldest son ea

The 12 year old's class has a pet rodent. It's a gerbil that goes by the name of "Cosmo." Apparently, the rodent would die over the weekend if left to his own devices. Fortunately for Cosmo, he's a class pet which means that the students in the class take turns bringing him home for the weekend. We got him over a holiday weekend. Lucky us. Cosmo lives in a fish tank with a metal grate atop. Cosmo has already had a couple of close calls with the Grim Reaper. A certain 6th grade girl dropped the fish tank just as her mother got out of the van to help her carry him. Ginger, the cat, found his existence intriguing and refused to get off the counter until she had completely explored all options of reaching him. As we laughed at her attempts, Sunday the dog became insecure and stuck her face in our faces to remind us she's important, too. Tonight during family prayer, the 4 year old volunteered to say it. "Heavenly Father, thanks for our family. Thanks fo

Why I love this woman: She is clever, genuine, and a true blue writer. She's the mother of a 3 year old smarty pants who reminds me of a four year old smarty pants that I love. She understands entering adulthood in the 80's. Enough said. She makes me laugh until I snort. She's not afraid to talk about poop . She uses her boys (Jeff, Bob, the dog and cat ) as muses and excuses for talking about poop . I love clever stories about poop. It infiltrates my every day and I can't find joy in my own experiences with it. She invited me to dinner next Sunday. Why I hate this woman: She is drop dead gorgeous. She is funnier than I am. She lives in a place where snow is only a legend. If you do not find her completely charming, hilarious or clever, I will give you my dinner invitation. I'm totally lying about giving you the invite. http://www.smacksy.com/

I was nearly 8 years old when my baby sister was born. This was quite fortunate since I was well adept at reading. I was tired of my name. Nancy. So plain. The Sunday comics included a comic strip called Nancy. She hung out with her stupid little boyfriend named Russell, was very boring and cried all the time. Why would parents who love their child name her such a boring name? I assumed they had run out of originality by this point. I was, after all, their third child. There was Mike, then Suzy, after me they had Joey (short for Joanne) and finally Jene Marie. The "j" a soft French slur. It was fitting. We had a French surname. But clearly Jene Marie was their crowning glory. Do I hate for taking all the love from my parents and hogging it for herself? Of course not. She's my sister. She's my baby sister. But if I happen to feel the need to speak to her when she's at work, I always ask for her by using both names; Jene Marie (with the schwa). I don't want her

During our first year of marriage I got a kitten. Perhaps I was feeling like I needed to dip my toe into my yet untried maternal instinct. Perhaps I just wanted a toy. Either way, the experiment was a complete failure. A few weeks after "Marvin" arrived, my husband countered with an incredibly ugly black lab mix he dubbed "Maggie." At least I had the good taste to pick up a beautiful Siamese Flamepoint specimen. However, until he hit kitten puberty, I was unaware that certain cats should be on Prozac. A few years later, Marvin was put into an Adopt-a-Pet project and exhibited hostile and anti-social behavior (like setting other cats on fire, etc.). He was accidentally put down. Meanwhile, the ugly puppy grew up. Beneath that awkward puppy was a stunning creature completely dedicated to her people. In spite of the cat fiasco, we decided to have children. Maggie accepted her lot in life with grace and adapted to being the guard dog and playmate. The children wanted a

"Mom," my 4 year old approached me today, "When you cook today are you going to make the house go 'beep, beep, beep, beep!'" Mr. Taylor snorted a laugh and swallowed it quickly when I gave him a sharp look. "No, honey, I will not set off the smoke alarm today." Later on I seared a steak, sauteed onions, and taught my daughters how to make Lion House Orange Rolls. Leaving the 14 year old to saute' the mushrooms, I began emptying the dishwasher. "Mom, is this good enough?" I checked on them and assured her they could cook just a little more when the smoke alarm decided to disagree with me. As I opened the doors, turned on the ceiling fans, cursed the vaulted ceiling where the smoke alarm is located (that's my story and I'm sticking to it), I realized I had kept my word. I had not set off the smoke alarm.

Sick of never meeting my goals each year, I resolve this year to make attainable goals and give myself permission to change them at any moment throughout the year. My current goals for 2010 consist of the following: Ask Chelsea Hightower to teach me how to hip hop Tabitha and Napolean style. Learn Spanish and speak it fluently Play the ukulele. Walk around the block. When passing my reflection, look myself in the eye, point both index fingers like a gun and say, "Hey, good lookin'!" Make clicking sound with tongue. Appreciate my body. It's given me a lot of good memories. Keep off additional weight. Enjoy what I eat. Celebrate what I deny. If not drink more water, look at it more. Maybe even talk to it. Smile more. Laugh more. Keep talking to myself even if someone is watching. Dance if I have an audience. Dance if I'm all alone. Thank God for something specific Surprise my husband with a kiss Forgive myself for having a bad day Remember that guilt is not a good g

In a desperate attempt to make New Year's Eve memorable, I decided we would cash in on our free passes to Clark Planetarium in Salt Lake City. There was a sense of foreboding as we entered the dome to see a presentation titled, "The Black Hole." Remember that strong vasovagal response I am quite fond of having? All that movement made me a little queasy. Then the kids went to Mars. Guess which one needs to go potty? To the moon... Free Trax in the city where my children had their first interaction with homeless people who had the good sense to ride Trax to escape the cold. No less than three toothless men told me all about their boys when they were that high. Speaking of boys about that high, do you love the enthusiasm evident on their faces? Where the Christmas spirit abounds, my children were in perfect harmony at Temple Square. That one in the green coat is NOT about to elbow his sister. His sister did not just poke him. Overall, I'm going to go with the id

What's the difference between my mother and me? About 30 years. If you have any excuse at all to get this coaster car, get it. Even if your youngest child is 20 years old. Get it. It is propelled by turning the wheel. Makes sharp turns, easy to manuever and causes children to cry out, "Mo-om! It's MY turn!" It is also a good way to get yourself to the kitchen table from the hall. It's transportation, people, not just a toy. I can't wait until summer when I take it for a spin around the block.