tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48603140037718427232024-03-05T16:08:44.904-08:00Catch The Window!Life Moves Pretty Fast...
<a href="http://pinterest.com/katrinanc"><img src="http://d3io1k5o0zdpqr.cloudfront.net/images/follow-on-pinterest-button.png" width="156" height="26"></a>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.comBlogger177125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-26003514773620874532015-10-12T16:00:00.001-07:002015-10-12T16:47:39.588-07:00The Christmas of Missed Expectations<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Related by John Bass<br />
<br />
The Christmas of 1972 in the small town of Orem, Utah is, without a doubt, the apex of my childhood Christmas delight. As Thanksgiving passed, and decorations started coming out, the December of my first grade year found me excited, and I don't mean a little bit; I mean sugar-fueled, unmedicated ADHD, holiday excited! Christmas was coming, and I could hardly stand myself! The tree, the gifts, the food! My eyes gleamed in anticipation, and daily discussions on the playground.<br />
<br />
Unbeknownst to me, my parents had decided that we would drive down to California and have a snowless, calm, and low-key Christmas with my grandparents. My mom would ship all of our presents early, skip decorating, and just cook the dinner there. My grandparents would have their own tree, and my dad would help to decorate the tall peaks of their house. So it was simple. We did not need a tree. We did not need any more presents, and we did not need to decorate for holidays that we would spend in another state. It was slated to be the easiest Christmas ever.<br />
<br />
My young hyper-mind could not really wrap itself a concept so foreign as a Christmas going uncelebrated or undecorated at my house. There were some things that I knew for sure; we needed a Christmas tree. And we needed to start seeing presents. My mom was good at deflecting my questions, so I went straight to my father. When, "When are we getting a tree? Is it going to be a real tree? A fake tree? Are we getting regular lights, or colored ones like the Young's? Where are we putting the tree, dad? In the middle of the room, or over there in the corner like we did last year? Can we have the red bottom? When is Christmas? How many more days 'til Christmas?"went unanswered, I ramped it up with even MORE questions, "You're home! Can we go get a tree and decorate it NOW? Is it time NOW? Is it almost Christmas? Do you need help putting up the lights? Can I help? Can I help you put up the lights NOW?" Finally, after one of these lengthy interrogations my poor besieged father had had enough. As I went in for another round of yuletide questioning my father blurted out in sharp frustration, "WE ARE NOT HAVING CHRISTMAS!" As my eyes dilated to the size of saucers he punctuated with, "WE CAN'T AFFORD IT!" The ruse produced a shock that did exactly as he had hoped. There were no more questions about Christmas from me.<br />
<br />
That was that. My father had looked me in the eye and spoken it, which was gospel truth to me. And as sure as Maxine Goldfine had a big behind, there would be no Christmas for the Bass family. Because we couldn't afford it. Looking back, I feel rather mature about the way I handled it. There were no tears, complaints, or self-pitied feelings. I took the news as absolute and final. Gone were all thoughts of trees and tinsel. Christmas was just a black pall of nothing to look forward to. My days, and my father's, went back to absolute normal.<br />
<br />
That next day on the playground, my friends were laying out their hopes for bikes and basketball shaped presents under the tree, and wanted to hear any updates from my house. "We're not having Christmas," I said. "We can't afford it." Their eyes looked like mine had, and there were whispers about who else this might have happened to before.<br />
<br />
My first grade teacher, noticing a distinct turn in my enthusiasm in my demeanor gently prodded, "John, tell me more about your Christmas wish list!" I gave her the same dreary news, "We're not having Christmas, we can't afford it." Tears sprang to her eyes and her hand shot to her mouth. It was news I was getting used to sharing.<br />
<br />
During church, my Primary School teacher asked about how many of us had our trees up and I repeated flatly, "We're not going to have a tree, or Christmas this year. We can't afford it." Adults always seemed thrown when I would mention our inability to have Christmas, but I had learn to live with it. You could see plainly that we had no decorations at our home, no tree. No nothing. Until...<br />
<br />
About a week before Christmas my family and I were all sitting in the undecorated front room when the doorbell rang. Figuring that it was a friend coming to play, I went to answer the door. Nobody was there, but a tree was! Right in the middle of the porch, the most beautiful lush Christmas tree I had ever seen! It was a Christmas MIRACLE! I motioned to my parents, who looked at each other in alarm, to come help bring the tree in the house. "Look! Its a tree! Its a CHRISTMAS tree! Its a miracle!" I crowed. My sisters and I danced rings around the tree. We would have a tree.<br />
<br />
Dumbfounded and confused, my parents brought it in the house, and did what anyone else would do with a tree in the house. We decorated it. Begrudgingly my folks brought out the ornaments and garlands and lights for our gifted tree while asking each other who would have thought to bring a tree.<br />
<br />
The very next night we were all in the front room, as we had been the night before, when the doorbell rang again. All the children sprang to the door - could a miracle repeat itself? It could. There on the porch, in a beautiful and full box WAS WRAPPED PRESENTS! Big presents, small presents, presents for my parents, and presents for each of us. Oh the joy that flushed my face was 100 watts. There was a TREE, there were PRESENTS! We pulled in the box as my father furrowed his brow and looked to the left and the right of our property. He came in to start questioning my mom when, "BING BONG!" the doorbell went off again. In the same spot that our tree had appeared stood another box. FOOD! The most glorious kind of food! Turkey, stuffing, canned food, cake mixes and everything for the finest feast a kid could hope to gorge on. Christmas was complete. A tree. Presents. And food. Angels had come that year, and the Bass Family WOULD have Christmas.<br />
<br />
What we did not anticipate was exactly how MUCH Christmas we would have. The very next night our living room turned into a small forest as two more trees were separately delivered. We set up the second one next to the first, but the third one we just kinda propped in a vacant corner. My mom kept peppering my father with questions, "why do people keep giving us stuff?"<br />
<br />
Then came the presents. Boxes and boxes and boxes of presents! Friends from school, and church would drop off a turkey and grocery bags of food as my mother searched for some counter space to put the deluge of goodwill that kept coming to our door. We filled up the first tree with presents, and then the second. After many more door bell drops we had enough presents to surround all three Christmas trees! It was better than my mind could ever have conceived possible. My mom was picking through the spots on the floor to go deliver some fudge for the church charity drive, muttering under her breath. <br />
<br />
She was so utterly confused. I remember how that changed to "gobsmacked" when a member of the Relief Society stopped by our home one evening, and glancing around our three trees and pirate's hoard of presents on the floor, and food of every sort crammed over every inch of counter and table, she handed my mother another full dinner including her own fudge, "We thought you might enjoy a little something to lift your spirits this season!" After the door shut, my mother clenched her fists, tilted her head back and screamed, "WHY DOES EVERYONE THINK WE ARE POOR!?"<br />
<br />
"Who cares?!" I thought. It was the very best Christmas EVER. Not only was it the best Christmas I had ever had in Utah, but we got DOUBLE PRESENTS in California! My sisters and I got every single toy that was created for our age group that year. For some reason, my parents were not as joyful. My mother was crabby, to say the least. She donated many of our presents, and even ended up taking extra decorations to the Goodwill. She was suddenly fielding questions about, "How are you doing... really?" from all sorts of people. "We're fine! WE'RE FINE!" she'd say. And then more loads of food would show up. <br />
<br />
The sheen of the Christmas joy began to wane as I began to put the pieces together. My friend Rob said, "Did you get the [toy] on your front porch? It was supposed to be mine, but my mom said that you needed it more because you were poor." My teacher was very conciliatory, asking if I had enough toothpaste and socks. "Well, yah." Oh. OHHHH! The penny dropped.<br />
<br />
Throughout the years, my mom would say in a very disgusted tone, "And what about that weird year, where everyone thought we were POOR!?" I couldn't do it. For years I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell her what I had done. How I had told every friend, neighbor, school and primary teacher that we would not be having Christmas. After having been away for a number years, I decided that at 21 1/2 years old I would come clean. I led with, "Mom, remember that really awesome Christmas?" "UGH! What an AWFUL YEAR! EVERYONE THOUGHT WE. WERE. POOR! Why?" I started backing out of the room. "Well, it was dad really..." I started. "He said that we weren't going to have Christmas because we couldn't afford it. And I told a few people," My mom was on her feet, and though I was taller, I was still a bit terrified. "WHAT DID YOU DO!?" she said with the skin starting to come away from her skull. "I told my friends. And the neighbors." I dodged a shoe, "and my school teacher," I dodged another shoe, "and everyone at church!" I ran out of the house with my mother shouting, "JOHN! HOW COULD YOU!? THEY ALL THOUGHT WE WERE POOR!!" And so the memory has ripened over time. It was the best of times, and for some, it was the worst of times. But it was definitely the most memorable of times. </div>
Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-81027758063837541382014-02-15T08:18:00.001-08:002014-05-24T09:07:30.649-07:00Friends, Windows, and Mirrors<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So, my sister and I were talking about someone who we have noticed does not have a lot of friends. She was pondering on the reasons why this lady just did not seem to have, or keep, her friends. That is when I gave her my theory of friends, windows and mirrors.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTzIBj5h3Cel9yuZ6Xw-MVr2K3HRVxJ0mR8jWjNTQrCYCx5-4iQDw" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTzIBj5h3Cel9yuZ6Xw-MVr2K3HRVxJ0mR8jWjNTQrCYCx5-4iQDw" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Window washer at a children's hospital</td></tr>
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Windows and mirrors, you see, are pretty much the same thing. They are glass put somewhere to enhance a surrounding. The only difference, really, is that one piece of glass has silver behind it, making it reflect back, instead of making it see-through.<br />
Both are perceived differently with the eye and, standing in front of either, each only allows one dimension to be seen. In the same way, we say that "the eye is the window to the soul" and, as eyes go, I believe that people are generally either a window, or a mirror. Window eyes see outside of themselves. Mirror eyes really only ever see themselves.<br />
For those who's lives are a window, they see around them. Not in the sense that they see anything different, but the way they process the information around them is very different from those people who are "mirrors." They see the mom holding the baby and a purse and trying to strap the child into a stroller with three other kids hanging around and asking why they can't have a cookie. Nothing remarkable. But someone who is a "window" sees that scenario, mentally puts themselves in the position of the mother and thinks, "CRAP! She needs two more hands or she is going to exhaust the last ounces of precious patience she was granted for today! Let me go offer to help without seeming like a creeper...." <br />
Window people see what is going on outside of themselves, and experience life through making evaluations on what it would be like to experience life as others do. And they act accordingly. They offer to help load an older woman's groceries, because they perceive that is something that is difficult for the elderly. They notice a child standing alone in a grocery store, and stop to see whether mom is nearby, or whether intervention is needed. They notice the car in the dark that is not turning over and do a mental check to remember if they have jumper cables in the back of the car and wait to see if the engine catches. When window people talk to you, they look straight in your eyes, and it can be massively uncomfortable because you kind of think they are looking straight into your soul. Unless they are awesome, and then you HOPE that they will look into your soul, and see what no one else can see. The good parts of you, and the parts that have never had the courage to vocalize, "Help me... I'm still hurting from something...."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSpxmgY9yEw9QYcBxipYKUokcL-cU7C_Mt5tGT28Q_LoIBdUcjs" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSpxmgY9yEw9QYcBxipYKUokcL-cU7C_Mt5tGT28Q_LoIBdUcjs" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snow White's step mom and her mirror.</td></tr>
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Mirrors are a little different. Mirrors send back exactly what is in front of them. Depending on the lighting, you can discover a zit that you didn't know was there, a newly sprung gray hair, or a bit more chub where you hand't noticed it before.<br />
Mirrors also show off a perfect lipstick line, perfectly groomed hair and eyebrows, and how the stairmaster is doing its job with your can-can. This intensive detail mapping is not new. In Greek mythology, there is also a famous mirror that attracted a handsome young man. Forgive me for inserting wikipedia here for the synopsis:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSwyUOErar8lVUJwerkF5zAXCZTSZhJcyhMpW3JRU3hh0tZWjFh" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSwyUOErar8lVUJwerkF5zAXCZTSZhJcyhMpW3JRU3hh0tZWjFh" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Narcissus and his mirror</td></tr>
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"The classic version is by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ovid">Ovid</a>, found in book 3 of his <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Metamorphoses">Metamorphoses</a> (completed 8 AD): the story of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Echo_and_Narcissus">Narcissus and Echo</a>. Narcissus was walking in the woods when <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Echo_(mythology)">Echo</a>, an <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oread">Oread</a> (mountain nymph) saw him, fell deeply in love, and followed him. Narcissus sensed he was being followed and shouted "Who's there?". Echo repeated "Who's there?". She eventually revealed her identity and attempted to embrace him. He stepped away and told her to leave him alone. She was heartbroken and spent the rest of her life in lonely glens until nothing but an echo sound remained of her. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nemesis_(mythology)">Nemesis</a>, the goddess of revenge, learned of this story and decided to punish Narcissus. She lured him to a pool where he saw his own reflection. He didn't realize it was only an image and fell in love with it. He eventually realized that his love could not be addressed and died." It wasn't a silver mirror, as we now know them to be, but rather a still pond that allowed him to gaze at his own reflection and admire all of the good and desirable things he found about himself, but the illustrations are the same. Each gazing individual is wholly consumed with one thing, and cannot see anything else around them.<br />
We learn a couple of lessons here, the first being, of course, that if you piss off a woman, OR her girlfriend, <u>you gonna die</u>. Though we hardly fault Nemesis for trying to teach the selfish Narcissus a lesson, it is also a true lesson that mirror people are often their own punishment. They lack close friendships, or have friendships that are only superficial and "good" when the other person is willing to let the conversation center around them, their thoughts, their desires and/or how they look. In my experience, these are the people who will announce, loudly, that they are "bored." <br />
Window people, on the other hand, are rarely bored. There is so much to see, so much to do, and so much to know, understand, and experience <i>with others</i>. They don't tend to exclude, form tiny elite groups, or only identify themselves with one type of person. They realize that everyone has something to teach, if you will only be patient enough to listen.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQeM8O7pc1zZKYWdXQtKi6NdwURJ2dZuLmGfvyKSBznLar85Ymk" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQeM8O7pc1zZKYWdXQtKi6NdwURJ2dZuLmGfvyKSBznLar85Ymk" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mirror of Erised</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
J.K. Rowling understood this when she wrote of The Mirror of Erised ("Erised" is "Desire" spelled backwards, fyi). Inscribed across the top of the frame is the following text:<i> Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi</i>. Reversing the inscription and rearranging the spaces produces: <i>I show not your face but your heart's desire. </i><br />
It is as though she understood the mirror/window concept and figured out how to project what was inside a person's soul onto another surface. The results seen in the mirror were very telling for each character. It revealed what kind of person they were like <i>on the inside</i>. Dumbledor, for example, when he happened upon Harry, saw what Harry saw; a desire for the boy to be with his parents. Dumbledor is a window. He advises young Harry,<i> "Men have wasted away before it, not knowing if what they have seen is real, or even possible,"</i> and ultimately, <i>"It does not do to dwell on dreams <b>and forget to live,</b> remember that."</i> In other words, don't be a mirror and dwell on yourself, be a window and live the organic, imperfect, life that is surrounding you. See through your eyes outward of your desires, and notice people - their needs, and where you can be a help and interest in other people's lives. Don't forget them. And don't waste your life just waiting for others to step into your fantasy and make you whole. Don't wait for them to come to you and make you happy; use your eyes to see others and help make THEM happy.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSbd75XwwGyeq2jRkVRYfF9KNyDSLqsm1K3Z1Yczu60JpbxSljayQ" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harry and the Mirror</td></tr>
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<a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSbd75XwwGyeq2jRkVRYfF9KNyDSLqsm1K3Z1Yczu60JpbxSljayQ" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"> And so it is with people and friends. There is a "seeing" and acceptance that happen</span>s when you have darling friends. And they will inconvenience you at the worst time possible. But it is the seeing, and the being there for them, the mutual consideration, love and helping each other that makes it so rich, so rewarding, and so utterly enjoyable.<br />
So, all things considered, it is best to be a window. And if you must be a mirror, use it to reflect light into dark places; make a short cut between your brain and your mouth for every good thing that comes into your mind; "I love your boots/pants/watch/haircut/eye color! Your child is adorable! You have on ONE kickin' outfit today. I loved your cogent comment. I'm still rolling it around in my mind. Giving my brain hamster a workout! Cute purse! I wish I had your hair..." <br />
Cost you nothing. But it sees. It notices, and it sprinkles goodness in a land parched of goodwill. And you will have friends. And if you are good to them, and try to clean your windows of perception regularly; understanding that the person who was sharp with you may have just found out that her husband lost his job, or received a diagnosis that they are not yet sharing. Make room for possibilities. And if you will clean your windows, see the good that is around you, then you will not waste away your life wondering if you are perfect enough, pretty enough, or ready enough to get out there. Or to be judged of others.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSyy-T75MIoigfvKk1JyROUeahQIwtF4acxkLvWu0lg1Qg2lz0p" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSyy-T75MIoigfvKk1JyROUeahQIwtF4acxkLvWu0lg1Qg2lz0p" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harry Potter with his friends. Each a window, they notice each other.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A great man once penned: <i>And <a href="http://www.lds.org/scriptures/bofm/moro/7.41?lang=eng#">charity</a> (being a window-type person, aware enough to see others and do stuff for them....) suffereth long, and is <a href="http://www.lds.org/scriptures/bofm/moro/7.41?lang=eng#">kind</a>, and <a href="http://www.lds.org/scriptures/bofm/moro/7.41?lang=eng#">envieth</a> not, and is not puffed up, seeketh not her own, is not easily <a href="http://www.lds.org/scriptures/bofm/moro/7.41?lang=eng#">provoked</a>, thinketh no evil, and rejoiceth not in iniquity but rejoiceth in the truth, beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Wherefore, my beloved brethren, if ye have not charity, ye are nothing, for charity never faileth. Wherefore, cleave unto charity, which is the greatest of all, for all things must fail— </i><br />
I have these people in my life, and I am eternally grateful for my friends. I don't have mirror friends, I have window friends, and I do my best to let them know each other. It is wonderfulness multiplied - like throwing open curtains in a dark ball room on a sunny day - the more the light, the better it is, and the easier it is to see and feel warmth. Mirrors rust. And we will all die anyway. So. You were put on earth to enhance this world. If you can, and everywhere possible, may I highly recommend that you be a window! You will always have amazing friends, your life will be rich, and your friends will hopefully give back and love you for seeing them. For we reap what we sow.<br />
<br />
</div>
Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-79503618250419834332013-09-01T11:41:00.001-07:002013-09-01T11:41:32.648-07:00Nephi's Journal<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://www.lds.org/bc/content/shared/content/images/gospel-library/magazine/ne07jul32_plates.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.lds.org/bc/content/shared/content/images/gospel-library/magazine/ne07jul32_plates.jpg" /></a>Perhaps the original, "Diary of a Wimpy Kid," this is my commentary on Nephi and the Golden Plates, and is meant for my sister to laugh - so much so, that milk might come shooting out her nostrils....<br />
<br />
This year we are reading The Book of Mormon again. My daughter is in the Personal Progress Program, and, if she does everything she can, it will have her reading the Book of Mormon 3 more times in the next 5 years. In a "small but frequent" effort to help her out, our family is reading one chapter of the Book of Mormon, in the morning, M-F, 52 weeks of the year. It takes about a year, at that pace, to finish it. <br />
As we were starting this round, the phrase, "<span style="background-color: #f9f6ed; color: #2f393a; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Sans', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">“I do make the record on plates which I have made with mine own hands,"</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #2f393a; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Sans', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> led me to ask myself some interesting questions about something that we all know about, but don't often consider. Like, how and where do you make a golden journal?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #2f393a; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Sans', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"> The second of six children myself, and raising four little munchkins of my own, it occurs to me that this would have been both difficult and annoying to everyone else in the family to create a diary, </span></span></span><span class="emphasis" style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic; line-height: 21.328125px;">“six inches wide by eight inches long.”</span><sup class="noteMarker" style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 1;"> <a href="http://www.lds.org/new-era/print/2007/07/what-did-the-golden-plates-look-like?lang=eng&clang=eng#footnote5-00647_000_013" style="background-color: transparent !important; color: black !important; font-size: 9px; text-decoration: none !important;">5</a> </sup><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 21.328125px;">—Joseph Smith Jr.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #2f393a; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Sans', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> Some of the physical descriptions say, "</span><span class="emphasis" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic; line-height: 18px;">“Of the thickness of plates of tin.”</span><sup class="noteMarker" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 1;"> </sup><span class="emphasis" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic; line-height: 18px;">“When piled one above the other, they were altogether about four inches thick,” and</span><sup class="noteMarker" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 1;"> </sup><span class="emphasis" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic; line-height: 21.328125px;">“weighing altogether, from forty to sixty lbs.”</span><sup class="noteMarker" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 1;"> </sup><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 21.328125px;">—Martin Harris We learn that, </span><span class="emphasis" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic; line-height: 21.328125px;">“a large portion of the leaves were so securely bound together that it was impossible to separate them.”</span><sup class="noteMarker" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 1;"> <a href="http://www.lds.org/new-era/print/2007/07/what-did-the-golden-plates-look-like?lang=eng&clang=eng#footnote16-00647_000_013" style="color: black !important; font-size: 9px; text-decoration: none !important;">16</a> </sup><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 21.328125px;">—David Whitmer, </span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 21.328125px;"> So, going conservatively - a 40 lb journal. And though it is not known EXACTLY what the metals were made of, we know that it was hard enough to be written on both sides, looked like gold, and that there were quite a few pages. In PAPER, the Book of Mormon, of similar size, takes up about 642 pages, so 321 back-to-front pages. Then there was the sealed portion, so multiply those 321 pages by 2/3 more and you get about 963 pages - give or take some pages. Assuming - for the sake of argument - that they could fit two English pages on one Hebrew/Reformed Egyptian page, that still leaves us with 481 golden pages. And you gotta ask yourself, WHEN would you have time to make that, and WHERE did Nephi get the materials? And whose idea was this anyway? We can only imagine. So lets imagine it...</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 21.328125px;"><u>Imagined Scenario 1 : God and Jesus; The Workout of the Gods</u></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 21.328125px;"><u>God -</u> So, Jesus, I was thinking about our little problem-o; Laman and Lemuel are pretty strong. They're older, and Nephi isn't in quite the shape we need him to be for *ta daaaaah!* SHIP building! I love the way that sounds,<i> SHIP Building</i>! Anyway, we really need to drag Laman and Lemuel along. If we just send the righteous people off, we're gonna have another Enoch on our hands. We need a foil so that people can see the bad example, and how to handle my instructions better. Half of them won't realize that they are more Laman than Nephi...</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 21.328125px;"><u>Jesus -</u> Yeaaaah. I think we should devise a personal-trainer type thing, where Nephi gets a daily workout. We will have to work on his upper body, get him seriously cut, and then have him get some real glute strength. I say we "forget" to tell him stuff so that he has to keep going back to Jerusalem and pick stuff up. About 5 times before the big hike should do it. Ideas?</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 21.328125px;"><u>God -</u> How about we have him go to "forge school" and make a heavy journal for him to tote around? Say 40-60 lbs? </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.328125px;"><u>BOTH:</u> RIGHTEOUS!!</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 21.328125px;"><u>Scenario 2: Where is Nephi?</u></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.328125px;">Knowing that Lehi lived in Jerusalem back in 600 + BC, we know that families are huge, and helping out around the house. If we imagine that Lehi had a forge (which would also explain the steel bow), then when did Nephi have time to make all these pages? Probably during family daylight working hours. In order to get the metal from it's natural state (he said he went hunting for ore...) into a page state, there would have had to have been quite the elaborate set up. You need something to super-heat the metal, some sort of form to pour it into to ensure consistent pages, and then something to drill the holes through the thin tin-like pages without ripping it. Who has time for that? I imagine that it went a little like this:</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 21.328125px;"><u>Laman </u>- Hey Mom, where's Nephi - its time for picking up goat poop.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.328125px;"><u>Sariah</u> - Um, he's out in the forge.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 21.328125px;"><u>Laman</u> - Doing WHAT? What the FREAK! First it was his hippy hiking with a wheelbarrow, and now he's out there diddly farting around again using up all the firewood! ALL because DAD lets him do it!!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 21.328125px;"><u>Sariah</u> - He's... uh, making a journal. Its a father/son thing. You know how they are. Making records, compiling records, records, records, records! They've been really going through the camping gear too. I don't know what is UP with those two lately... I just hope it's a phase.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 21.328125px;"><u>Laman</u> - THAT IS SO DUMB! Why does dad love him more than me! And I hate camping - I am NOT going anywhere with them; I don't care WHAT dad says. I'd rather, like, tie myself to a post than have to go camping with my family. Seriously mom - he's been getting out of goat poop duty for a MONTH! What the heck! How many pages does he freaking need! "My name is Nephi and I'm a total LAME-O" - end of story! I'll even write it for him! "I am a total nerd-dork who is wasting all my life making a freaking journal so I can get out of goat poop duty..." It's not like anyone is ever gonna read that stuff. What a dweeb. Seriously.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 21.328125px;"><u>Sariah</u> - I know... I know... but you got to go to </span><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 21.328125px;"><i>J.E.W. Jerusalem</i></b><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 21.328125px;"> for a semester, and he didn't. Can you hand me my favorite golden pot - the big heavy one with the lid and handles?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 21.328125px;"><u>Laman</u> - Sure. Where is it?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 21.328125px;"><u>Sariah</u> - What do you mean, "where is it?" It's where it always..... <b><i>NEPHIIIIIIIIII</i></b>!!!!!!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 21.328125px;"><u>Scenario 3: NO, It's YOUR turn!</u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 21.328125px;">One of my favorite explanations about the plates is from </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 21.328125px;">Orson Pratt’s description of rings “<i>through which a rod might easily be passed, serving as a greater convenience for carrying them.” </i>Those plates would have been a significant weight and now we gotta tote these suckers around. It is like an early version of the TOTAL GYM. You put a stick through some weights, and then do a bunch of repetitions. But who would have had the responsibility?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 21.328125px;"><u>Nephi's wife</u>: Honey, if I have to tote one more kid around, I swear, I'm just gonna lose it! I was up with the baby all night, and your dad says we gotta head even FARTHER into I-don't-know-where again. I"m really starting to think this was a bad idea.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 21.328125px;"><u>Nephi</u>: Um. I can take munchkin off your hands, if you want to take my plates?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 21.328125px;"><u>Nephi's wife:</u> YOUR FREAKING JOURNAL! Are you SERIOUS! Your brother is still pissed about you using his best camel blanket to rub that black crap all over the letters - not to MENTION the fact that he read what you wrote about his "murmuring"! I think if you even "mention" your journal again everyone except your dad is gonna toss you over a cliff, toss that stupid journal on <i>top</i> of you, and then TAP DANCE ON YOUR GRAVE!!! I told you to leave it, but NoooOOOOooOOO! Had to play the, "Lord told me to do it" card! I HATE THAT CARD! I told you I didn't want to hear <i>one more thing</i> about your stupid two ton journal. Here. I"ll strap the baby to your front. Now you're equally balanced...</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 21.328125px;">The scriptures can seem really stiff at times, but I think that when we look behind the details and think, "Wait a minute..." we can see a bigger part of the picture. Two of my favorites from my sisters:</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 21.328125px;">"My favorite story is how King Lamoni marveled for an hour at Ammon. Like, what did everyone else do while he was marveling? 'So... should we order out for pizza or something?'" - Reagan</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 21.328125px;">Lovin' me some scripture study....</span></span><br />
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Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-23825213264576491412013-05-26T22:11:00.001-07:002013-05-28T13:16:45.851-07:00Gathering Hair Balls and Other Gardening Witchcraft<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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One of the things that I have been dabbling in is gardening. I mean, the people who do it go outside, pick fresh stuff - FOR FREE - and eat it right off the vine, or plant, or whatever. Its supposed to taste<b><i><u> so</u></i></b> much better than the grocery store stuff. I took a class from a lawyer-turned-gardener, which was fascinating. If there's something I know about lawyers, is that a good one always does his "Due Diligence." <br />
He researches his project extremely well, and then builds an excellent case for winning. Kinda hard to argue about gardening with a guy holding a 75 lb watermelon he grew... So I attended his classes, took copious notes, and walked out with an "A"... for attendance. What I didn't know, was that gardening is as close to witchcraft as you get in the US of A. And, like Harry Potter, it is a world with regular lookin' individuals that operate in a totally different sphere, doing totally weird stuff.<br />
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We just moved into this sphere a month ago. And since we moved into a house with a huge strip of front yard that is 1.5 acres long, with a garden set up, it seemed natural that we would fall into gardening. After all - we have the space! The previous owner left us a legacy of some plants already growing, and spigots properly placed along the borders of an area ready for a garden the size of most people's yards.<br />
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My neighbor, Mr. Paul Gourdin who owns the surrounding 7 acres, boards horses, and has lived long enough to have grandchildren, completed two missions (Argentina AND the local Cannery), and has his own ginormous garden plot, all under his belt. After meeting, he asked if I was going to do a garden. I replied with a timid, "Uh... yeah." <br />
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"Last frost is past, so, its time. What are you gonna put in?"<br />
<br />
As my mind scrambled to come up with plants - that are garden plants - that would feasibly be planted at this time of year, in this state, I went into a mini-panic as my City Girl side started to show. There was this long silence while that little hamster was spinning in my brain. Artichokes? NO - that's California, coastal. Celery? No! No one eats celery around here. Plants! What am I planting!!?? Oh my gosh - he's staring at me!<br />
<br />
"Corn?" He offered.<br />
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"Yeah! Yeah - corn! Annnnd, sooooome SQUASH!" Which was a dumb thing to say -since I have a total of ONE recipe for squash.<br />
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"Tomatoes?" He countered.<br />
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"Oh yeash. Of course tomatoes. Yah. And maybe some peppers."<br />
<br />
"Hot or bell?" How else can I say this, except that his retort was <b><i>so fast</i></b> I had to think what a BELL pepper was versus a HOT pepper. My hamster was wearing out...<br />
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"Uhmmmm. Both?" Who doesn't need a habanero plant in their yard?! Tons of uses. TONS...<br />
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"Zucchini?" came the next rapid fire vegetable,<br />
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"Ah - sure!" I said before my brain kicked in. <br />
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OH MY GOSH NO! What was I thinking?! That is another plant that I only associate with "bread," and only then when someone ELSE hands it to me! The zucchini bread, not just the zucchini... I have no idea what to do with that. Except substitute it with the one squash recipe that I have....<br />
<br />
He nodded a "knowing" nod and offered to put the "discs" on the tractor, plow in some horse manure, and have it ready by Monday. He said he would text me a list of plant categories to get at the IFA. Because I knew, of course, that you have to plant different varieties of plants. If you open a single brand of seeds and spread them around they will all mature at the same time. And then all need to be harvested at the same time. DUH... I knew that. Sort of. It was written down in some of my notes. Somewhere.<br />
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The IFA is the American farmer's equivalent to <b><i>"The Leaky Cauldron."</i></b> Everyone is going about their business in an utterly strange environment, while the muggles mostly stand and stare. At stuff. Sphagnum Peat Moss, Sevin Bug Poison, Bp, rows and rows of plants, flowers, gourds, seeds, pots and dirt. The conversations are just as bizarre. As I entered, I passed by two men in a heated discussion,<br />
<br />
"I think it's HIGH TIME they Mayor opened hunting season so we can massacre all those bastards - going in and munching my apples and peaches! They ate my tomatoes and took nips out of my pumpkins - RUINED them last year. Just<b> ruined</b> them!"<br />
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"Yah - but it'll have to be with the hunting cross-bow from high ground, so they don't bleed out. No one wants a deer bleeding out in their front lawn."<br />
<br />
My jaw hit the ground. Hunting with cross-bows? I thought all gardeners were overall-wearing, red bandanna and straw-hat totin hippies! Huggin' trees and lovin' Mother Earth and all, - not mass murderers. As they glanced my way, I suddenly became fascinated with a poster with an acorn squash on it. I avoided eye contact and looked instead at my list for plants. First up - tomatoes. So I decided to find the tomatoes. I saw two women having a discussion about the merits of rhizomes and whether the liquid root simulator was worth it, or just rolling the seeds in the dry powder was better. Undecided, they discussed the merits of inoculating seeds and which went on first, the nitrogen fixing bacteria, or the rhizome powder. I think they were speaking English, or Granglish. Gardener-English. Since they seemed to know what they were doing, I approached and asked if they knew where the tomatoes were.<br />
<br />
"Right over there..." Which was said in a tone similar to that used as if I had asked where the sun was.<br />
<br />
I picked up the plants and realized why people were walking around with carts. Plants in pots of dirt are heavy! I started working my way through my list, until I came to the pumpkins. The nearest "plant" savvy person near to me was suddenly asking for a seed vibrator. I didn't even want to know, so I just kept walking until I saw someone in short-shorts and a tank top who looked like they were <i>evaluating</i> plants instead of just trying to guess what they were. <br />
<br />
"Do you know where they put the pumpkins? These vegetables aren't in alphabetical order..." I said, trying to sound as though all the OTHER garden centers were laid out reasonably.<br />
<br />
"Uh huh, yaaah. They're not. Pumpkins are over on that table..."<br />
<br />
I went over<i> there</i>, and I got the feeling that people thought I was a lonely pampered woman buying up a garden just trying to keep a brawny lawn-and-garden boy busy for the summer. There was one solitary pumpkin plant on a big spot of empty table. As I looked around it, I searched for the others, as though the plants might be covered in some invisibility cloak, or hiding under the table. Nope. So I assume that its like waiting for french fries, and its best to wait for the next batch to arrive and ensure getting a nice, strong-lookin' plant instead of the runt of the litter. I went back to the short-shorts lady,<br />
<br />
"This is all I found, and my list says I need four. Do they have more in the back?" <br />
<br />
Giving me a quick look up and down, and keeping an eye on me as she hollered around to one of the boys if there were any more flats in the back. He hollered back,<br />
<br />
"Nah - that's the last of 'em!" Meaning the last of what was planted at the right time, that would sprout when it needed to, to be ready for Halloween.<br />
<br />
"!@#$&*!!"<br />
<br />
So I took the one sad punkin' and the rest of my order and checked out trying to avoid the stares of the dedicated gardeners and deer murderers. I made a mental note: garden centers are HOT! Do not show up in white capris, kitten heels, and a sweater top.<br />
<br />
One o'clock Monday finally arrived, and I was out in the tilled garden with my seeds and potted plants. Planting is actually not a complicated thing. Draw a line down the middle of the row with a stick. Lay the seeds the appropriate distance apart. Cover them up and water. What my neighbor knew, and I clearly did not, is that this process takes enough time to necessitate also wearing a hat. I burned my lily white skin into a Farmer's tan with the first 45 minutes of planting. Paul had his straw cowboy hat that looked nice and shady as we leaned over the furrows. It got worse for me as the afternoon wore on. And its not a "tan." What I got is red skin that is also speckled throughout with even darker red bumpy angry skin that will not get you noticed on the beach. More like, it will have people toss you money for your deformity.<br />
<br />
<br />
Within a short time of the garden going in, I also experienced my first suicide. Even after careful planting, watering, and fertilizing, one of my cucumbers went in the ground, got watered, and decided that it hated it so much outside of the nursery that it dried up in it's $1.47 Miracle-Gro well-watered peat-moss pot. And it refused to live any more. Looking at that plant with the "care for tab" still brightly attached, all I feel is a mix of pity and anger,<br />
<a href="http://tinkerbelle86.files.wordpress.com/2011/07/deadplant_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://tinkerbelle86.files.wordpress.com/2011/07/deadplant_o.jpg" /></a><br />
"Look you stupid plant! All the other plants decided that they could hack it! I watered you just as much as them! What is your DEAL? COME ON! You are basically in the same spot that you were on Saturday! With more air! And fewer mass-murderers! And more room to grow! What do I have to do to make you happy, huh!?" <br />
<br />
It didn't care. It wilted, then shriveled into nothingness, all within 36 hours. If you had a microscope, you could not find it out there. Which, after discovering nothing but the tab, had me muttering about the intelligence of plants and realizing that my old self never used to do that... Imperius curse?<br />
<br />
So now, at this point in the gardening process, I have some plants on suicide watch. I make regular sweeps around the garden to see if they've done anything stupid. I've got a habanero plant that is refusing to put his leaves up and just looks depressed all the time. "Buck up there lil' pepper - you got water today! Just as much as the other peppers and they aren't giving me this grief! You really need to pull it together now! I AM WATCHING YOU!" Which feels weird to be giving a pep talk to a depressed plant.<br />
<br />
As does my recent conversation with Gourdin, about two weeks into all this. I went over to Gourdin's to ask about thinning, and whether I'd pruned correctly for both raspberry plants (of course I had - I'd been reading my gardening notes!). His eyes got a little wider, which is about as much expression as I've ever seen.<br />
<br />
"Both? Which two are you talkin' about?" <br />
<br />
I waved in the direction of the raspberry patch that was lookin nice and tidy after hours and hours of pulling out a veritable Serengeti of old neglected canes and long grass that was growing happily there and choking the life out of the other raspberries, and then waved over to the other side of the garden where there was now a nicely trimmed raspberry plant where a messy raspberry hydra had once been. I had it nice and trimmed with canes carefully re-woven throughout its trellis - just like the book said.<br />
<br />
Without moving his head an iota, he looked at the raspberry plant trellis, looked at me, and said,<br />
"That's a grape."<br />
"It is?" I stammered.<br />
"Uh huh. That's a grape plant. It'll go all over. Keep it watered."<br />
<br />
First dead plants, now wrong plants. <br />
<br />
"Oh! I didn't know. I sure hope you're supposed to trim 'em! Cuz I went all 'French Revolution' on them yesterday and decapitated all sorts of stuff!" which I thought was terribly witty.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://repellex.com/wordpressblog/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/Great-Homemade-Deer-Deterrent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="http://repellex.com/wordpressblog/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/Great-Homemade-Deer-Deterrent.jpg" width="320" /></a>No reply.<br />
<br />
So... I ventured again. "Also, some deer took a bite out of my tomato plant. Any ideas?"<br />
<br />
"Get a hair bag." he said flatly.<br />
<br />
"A... a hair bag?" I leaned in as if I was struggling with my hearing aid.<br />
My little brain hamster was running furiously now. What in THE royal hell was a hair bag?<br />
<br />
"They hate the smell of human hair. So you get your hair trimmed, have 'em sweep it up in a bag, and then stuff wads of hair into ladies nylons. Hang it right by the plant. That should help deter them for about a summer. If you don't want to add any more hair, just spray it next year with deer repellant. Or you can buy a bush like this one. (He pointed to a munched up bush.) It kills deer. I had to put a cage around it this year after the deer ate the darned thing down to the nub!"<br />
<br />
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I can not tell you which is weirder. That he told me that, or that I actually went and did as he suggested. And the salon is apparently in on the deal because they were like,<br />
"Oh yah - totally, here ya go!"<br />
I half expect them to start recommending eye of newt and wolfs-bane for future problems! But I did it. Hung five bags of hair in knee-highs all around the tomatoes and the pumpkin patch - looking over my shoulder. As I was tying them up I got a little worried that anyone I knew would stop by and ask what I was doing.<br />
<br />
"I'm just out here... hangin' some of my hair. In these nylons. To, ya know, keep the deer away... until the cross-bow hunt..." <br />
<br />
It seems like so much hoo doo nonsense, but since everyone is in on it, I guess its worth a try. I wonder if I can use the hair from my drain. But then I imagine the deer saying,<br />
"Oh my GOSH! It's Coconut scented hair! Margarita's everyone!!" and then having all my plants be gone. I don't know. I have no idea how much my hair really stinks.<br />
<br />
But this I do know; gardens are <b><i>not</i></b> free. It is not effortless or for the faint of heart. And between weather, animals and bugs trying to take it out, I now empathize when I hear the conversation about someone leaving lots of deer poop on the Mayor's front porch. And whether we will live to reap anything out of it is yet to be seen. For all I know, I have just planted a delicious deer/bug buffet. I figure that I will worry about what to do with 250 lbs of tomatoes later. <br />
<br />
Meanwhile, my poor pioneer ancestors are turning in their graves. "What is she DOING!? THOSE ARE GRAPES!" But I do have such respect for the farmers out there who do this as their job. They may have to send stuff out to grocery stores green and whatnot, but the fact that we have access to such awesome food in all its variety is amazing to me. And I'm gonna try and at least give it a shot. Not like the deer massacre shot, just "trying it" kind of shot. Hoo Doo and all.<b> "Garden! Wingardium <i>Leviosa!"</i></b></div>
Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-60786100847766537952013-05-12T10:25:00.003-07:002013-05-12T10:39:49.996-07:00Moving<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTamb2kttlnUYyyG_0tTJA8u4fR9_pVnDFLZ8QzXPdcL2Kt-eqWrCpYmxojA8ggu1wFz7VcLnDW6wPN8h549hICj2E5mIh3jnzTX-oGR7JBJidwVb8VZP9FWBfe2HXb3umAr2XLLwrOJw/s1600/girl+taking+test.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTamb2kttlnUYyyG_0tTJA8u4fR9_pVnDFLZ8QzXPdcL2Kt-eqWrCpYmxojA8ggu1wFz7VcLnDW6wPN8h549hICj2E5mIh3jnzTX-oGR7JBJidwVb8VZP9FWBfe2HXb3umAr2XLLwrOJw/s320/girl+taking+test.jpg" width="203" /></a>I hate moving. Yet I am getting super good at it. We are on day 12 in our new place, and we finally have everything that was initially moved IN to the garage is now out of the garage. It's not quite perfect, but let's face it; moving is like a typical college semester. At the outset, you start out doing everything perfectly. Perfect materials and a totally unrealistic idea of exactly how long it's going to take. Then the assignments start to overlap, you throw in a few, "Awww, that would be so fun!" activities and suddenly you find yourself living in sweatpants and greasy hair while you start living off of Doritos and (name of your favorite caffeinated beverage here). Moving is like that.<br />
<br />
I have learned a few tips and tricks about moving in all my years of experience. And please, feel free to add your own ideas here.<br />
<br />
1.<b> Move the art.</b> It is the first thing that can come down off the walls, and is best transported in your own fair vehicle. Bubble wrap and boxes at high end prices will still leave you with a very lovely cracked frame, statue, favorite porcelain statue. Move the art, and get it into a safe place.<br />
<br />
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2. <b>Avoid cardboard boxes</b>. Boxes are expensive, and are only good for ONE thing; the ride from one place to the next. It is the "insult to injury" of moving. Having to buy boxes that you have been trying for YEARS to get out of the house is mind-bending. Especially once you see the prices. Then once you have boxed up all of your crap, you must UNbox it, and, as if that weren't enough, you must now deal with the boxes. Yes, it helps movers to make a TON of money off of you, and it makes everything nice and tidy, but if you are moving locally - skip the boxes and start getting creative with garbage bags. THOSE, you will reuse!<br />
<br />
However, if you MUST use boxes, then arrive at your new place and immediately find a way to get them OUT of y our new place. Don't place boxes in some random area with the idea that you will "deal with these later." No, just dump them out in the approximate room where they go, and then hustle the boxes outside with a "Free to a Good Home!" sign. You will pick up the stuff on the floor, you will never develop a desire to unpack a box. EVER.<br />
<br />
The upside, is that you get very realistic about your stuff when you see it all on the floor. If - with all of your worldly possessions scattered about, you find that you can't deal with all of the stuff on the floor- it is usually a good time to hold a garage sale, or just keep an active "to donate" pile going. Once it fills a garbage bag, trot it off to the Salvation Army/Deseret Industries/Goodwill. DO NOT GO THROUGH IT. Throwing away twice is just masochistic..<br />
<br />
<a href="http://betterorganizedliving.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/plasticware_w_-300x215.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://betterorganizedliving.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/plasticware_w_-300x215.jpg" /></a>3.<b> Move the kitchen first</b>. I made a city-to-city move within my own state, so while the kids were at school, I started hauling over the kitchen between drop-offs and pick-ups. Most family activity thrives around the kitchen. And it is the absolute hydra of breakables, perishables, and necessitous spoons, cutting boards and pots. If you can set up your kitchen then above all else, at least you will not starve, and you can deal with almost anything else that comes your way during your transition. Paper plates and plastic ware will save you when you are between addy's.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.wired.com/geekdad/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Epson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="http://www.wired.com/geekdad/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Epson.jpg" width="200" /></a>4. <b> Live a container lifestyle</b>. Halloween stuff - in a container with a lid. Christmas stuff - container. <br />
Kitchen pasta - pasta bucket. This has been SUCH an incredible blessing to me. It is HIDEOUS to plan and plot buying and setting them up in the moment, but ohhhh what a dream to move a basement that was already sorted and ... contained. And.... if you have the means.... I highly recommend getting a label maker. Those little suckers are worth their weight in gold. It is the key to freeing yourself from being the keeper of all the family "where is it?" information.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://images4.fanpop.com/image/photos/21100000/Friends-4ever-mcrkilljoygirl-21189765-895-893.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="319" src="http://images4.fanpop.com/image/photos/21100000/Friends-4ever-mcrkilljoygirl-21189765-895-893.jpg" width="320" /></a>5. <b>Be flexible</b>. Each place I have lived in has its good and bad attributes. I have substituted having a garbage disposal for an incredible front yard for my kids to play on. And a garden. Any place can be your Eden if you have the right attitude. Tell your kids that this is home, and that you will be going on an adventure to find those best friends that you just haven't met yet! Moving is like opening a new treasure chest. You look around you, and you have no idea what gems surround you. Be open to new people and new experiences. On one of my previous moves, I was on bed rest and this totally skinny lady in running shoes came over to watch my daughter for me. Looking her up and down, well, I KNEW that we probably didn't have much in common. She probably ate tofu and planned marathons for fun. How wrong I was. She loves chocolate, she wears running shoes for comfort, and is one of the dearest people on earth that I know. Allow yourself to believe that things will turn out well. And more times than not. It will. Just like your best college semester.</div>
Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-42260330189322950372013-04-08T12:37:00.002-07:002013-04-08T12:59:05.078-07:00How to Clean the Fridge When you don't Want to<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There are certain jobs connected with living that are secondary jobs. If they are not done, your world does not fall down. Things like... mowing the lawn, organizing your craft section and one of the most glaring of secondary jobs, cleaning out the fridge. I hate doing it. The doing is gross, sticky, pickle-mixed-with-chocolate-sauce and chicken-blood gross. Unfortunately for me, I do NOT have anyone else in my home that has an OCD-need to keep a pristine, well oiled, defrosted and spiffied-up refrigerator So. The only one to notice that it is gross enough to require attention is... me. If you are like me, you may need a little encouragement to attack this disgusting task. I hereby offer up my solutions for attacking this unsavory secondary job.<br />
<br />
#1 - The first step in attacking this truly disgusting task is to KNOW that you need to do it. That means that you *need* to first take an afternoon off, go over to the cupcake store and really soul search on what your "disgusting" level is. Exactly HOW bad does it have to get before you just can't stand it anymore? At what point are you moved to action, - and does that level of mold perhaps need adjusting?<br />
<br />
#2 - After you have found, and met, your disgusting level quota, and KNOW that you need to do it, grab your phone. I did this very successfully today. I dialed up my darling friend Mish (when I say that name, you should automatically think to yourself, "Oh I LOVE her!"). As I sat there staring down my gross fridge, we started talking about THE grossest fridge we have ever had to clean - in great detail. I pull up my bra strap, and wedge my phone in there so that I am "hands free." As you continue this very vivid description of former filth, it should encourage you to grab the 409 and a cleaning rag. Ya know, the rag that is <b><i>actually </i></b>a small towel.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://c4.soap.com/images/products/p/cxc/cxc-129_1z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://c4.soap.com/images/products/p/cxc/cxc-129_1z.jpg" width="151" /></a>#3 - After your have a good discussion of disgusting fridges rolling, your 409, and a towelrag, just start taking stuff out and putting it on the counter. Don't look at it. Just put it on the counter. Unless it is leaking. Put that in the sink. As the conversation moves to gross people you can't believe live in such squalor just take out one shelf at a time, scrub it good, and leave it out to dry. When it gets to the bins, scrub inside and out, then turn them like a cake you are decorating while spraying down each side. Turn the bin, not the sprayer so that you are always spraying IN to the sink, not on the counter, or the floor.<br />
<br />
#4 - With your towelrag, and an empty fridge, start to spray the insides of the fridge, and then wipe and start to work your way down. When you hit the bin area, just spray like you're putting out a fire. Scoop up all of the fridge crumbs, dried milk and unspeakable dross into the rag until there is nothing left but clean plastic. If you describe this part in detail to your friend, she will start to clean her fridge as well.<br />
<br />
#5 - Then, it's time to just enjoy yourself as you start to restock. Toss the moldy yogurt(s), group all 4 bags of bread that were breeding in the back shelves, and you may discover that you now have 5 bags of carrots that you keep buying because you can never remember if you have them while grocery shopping. You just always remember that you need them and were gonna use for a roast/snack a couple of weeks ago. As you start to put everything back into happy groups, (how did I get 6 blocks of cream cheese and 7 sticks of butter?) you may discuss new recipes to put the carrots in, or, just as a random suggestion, talk about those self-righteous cleaning nuts who clean their fridge every week. I plead the 5th, and admit to nothing here. However, if those topics don't suit you, you can move on to other important topics like food storage, and whether or not you need a solar generator.<br />
<br />
But the simple fact will remain - you have just cleaned the fridge. And as you swing the door open and a choir of angels sing, you can smile each time you gaze into your sparking fridge. And should someone need to borrow some butter, you will now know whether or not you actually have some, and encourage them to go fish for it themselves. This is so much better than having that shifty-eyed look of a car thief when someone asks to get something out of your semi-disgusting fridge.<br />
<br />
And always, always, thank your friend for their help. Spread the love, and celebrate your success by reminding your husband that its time to mow the lawn.....</div>
Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-62284075621719565042013-03-19T13:37:00.001-07:002013-03-20T18:21:17.337-07:00Empty Pages<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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In a rush to a symposium where I would need to take notes, I grabbed the nearest notebook I could find. A few days later, I went to review my notes. As I flipped from the pages to figure out which way was front and back, a page caught my eye. At the top was a page labeled, "Ultimate Secrets of my Life." As I scanned the page, I realized that it was blank.<br />
<br />
This notebook is my daughter's. I found her drawings up near the front. And as I looked at that page, I began to wonder about her. What ARE the "ultimate secrets" of her life? The very fact that there is that title makes me believe that there are secrets. But the fact that it is blank reminds me of myself. And of you. There is, in the dungeons of my heart, thoughts and experiences that have been locked away that will most likely not see the light of day. They are mine. They have shaped who I am, how I see the world, and the statistics of my life. Some are interesting, many are not, but they are the essence of who I am when no one else is looking.<br />
<br />
Will you ever find them here? Maybe. Everyone has a bit of transparency to their life. Scars, habits, accents, and even genetics tell you something about each person you meet. There are the standard stories we tell each other, "About the time that....". But there are those that we don't tell as well. The questions of whether or not we feel valued. The hopes and aspirations we have that some may not understand. We keep them guarded in our own little tower with vigilant guards set to protect them. I will give you an example:<br />
<br />
When I was young, I wanted to be a world champion ice-skater. I didn't know then, as I know now, that I did not have the ideal physique for ice skating. But oh how I loved the movement, the costumes, and the amazing spins, jumps and choreography that I saw on the tv. To dance, jump, and spin with abandon and show physically what the music makes you feel internally. To fly and move in a way that can only be accomplished with very little friction. Which is also why I seriously enjoy watching Spider Man when he is flying between buildings. Mostly it was the costumes though. The twirly skirts that catch the air. <br />
<br />
I never did turn out to be a world class skater. Of the few times that I did go ice skating it was NOT what I had imagined in my mind. The bird-flapping arms trying to stay balanced with feet that never seemed comfortable on top of a blade. And I never got the costume either. Ice rinks are cold anyway. But it did teach me to listen to the heart of my each of my children. Know their desires and let them try to follow their heart. I didn't succeed where I wanted to, but I did became a wicked air-hockey player. With a competitive edge so fierce that the puck often flies off the table.<br />
<br />
Not much of a secret, huh? But even if you have known me for years, you would most likely not know either of those things about me. Like the way I just found out that the man I've been married to for over 14 years played the trumpet in his youth. And those don't even come close to being any of my "ultimate" life secrets. Those might strike fear, pity, or shock in your own heart. But even if you were curious, you would not find them, or know them. I have not written them down anywhere, for anyone. Nor will I. Those are ultimately in an impenetrable part of me that even<i> I</i> rarely visit. But it reminds me that there is an interior life to every person. I don't think that there is enough time to know each other as well as we might like. <br />
<br />
I reached up to pin down the slivers I had caught from Heaven.<br />
They were hammered down between my heart and mind<br />
To remind me of what I was and what I was meant to do.<br />
Somewhere in the night I forgot where they were<br />
Fear caught a hold of me and ravaged my soul<br />
Cold fingers, lost eyes, and uncertain heart collapsed me<br />
Til I found the first sliver I had hammered<br />
And traced the it back to where it first fell.<br />
<br />
Yep. Now I gotta go move like Jagger and get some cleaning done. I will be dancing where you can't see me, and singing where you are most likely glad you can't hear me. And I suspect, that many of you are doing the same. There are so many empty pages to fill.<br />
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Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-65039334920169975442013-02-22T19:34:00.001-08:002013-03-13T16:47:09.255-07:00Mothering. Eternity's Japanese Game Show<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My sister, Reagan, made a post the other day asking, "What does God sound like?" and one of her friends mistakenly posted, "I think God sounds Asian" instead of "I think God sounds like Aslan (of C.S. Lewis' "The Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe" fame)". We all fell apart giggling about what an Asian God would say to His children, "Why you no repent?"<br />
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Asian God. How silly. And today, as I wandered around my home, I was of two minds; the devilish - "Holy Crap - this mess is insane!" and the angelic - "I chose to be a mom, ... and its not like this is<i> hard</i>. Its vacuuming, picking up, rinsing out pots and pans etc." As I numbly went about doing "the pickup" of unloading the dishwasher, switching over the unending load, shifting piles of paper "to go through" so that I could wipe off the counter. I got distracted by a separate mess, and have not yet wiped down the counter, but hey, the kids got fed. And I just had to think, "Is this really worth it? I mean. Yah. I "get" to do this, in the sense that there are people out there who can not have children. I"m sure they would cry with joy at the possibility of... picking up after a kid." And then my sarcastic side slipped in, "Yes. But you are not picking up after A kid, you are picking up after FOUR kids. Four kids who can undo a room such record time, its almost <i>Genus Book of World Records</i> - worthy."<br />
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Asian God. Aslan God. You know - I believe in God. And of all the things I had to learn on my turn on earth, is this really it? Patience? Cuz that seems to be the only thing that is stretching around here except my butt. And then I had the thought of a Hunger Games Arena. The part where there's a group looking down into the arena at the controls, giving urgent messages about how things are unfolding in my micro controlled environment:<br />
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"They have been home 1.2 minutes. Deploy the toddler to find the new plaster teeth mold and destroy it. Let the 4-yr old see the new box of Lucky Charms. With proper hand placement, explode the entire bag like cereal confetti in the front "guest" area..."<br />
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and me... with what is left of my wits, left alone to try and defend against it.<br />
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Heaven forbid that I have tidy kids!!! And I gotta say, I am not really winning this game. They undo faster than I can redo. For example; Sam's ride came to the door yesterday. Two little girls were sent to retrieve him, and after I opened the door, one little girl said to the next, "Wow - its really messy in there." What did she see? Oh, the broken chair that hubby has been "going to fix" for almost 2 years now. Freshly torn out curtains from my son's room. Gross carpet, (because the spot bot just ain't cuttin' in anymore), a <b>very</b> dead aloe plant that "I don't know" keeps stabbing with a fork, my microfiber couch that has been peed on a number of times, and the remnants of yesterday's cereal escapade. There's more, but I just can't list it all here. All it would take to put right is a team of professionals and two hours to get it back into shape.<br />
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However. I don't HAVE a team. The team of professionals is me. And the timer for cleaning really only starts when kids are not being their creative selves or NOT in the house; a narrow window between 12:45 and 3:20 which is naptime + schooltime - Tues-Fri. There is an INSANE number of things to do in a ridiculously short amount of time. And then... I got it. Suddenly the idea of an Asian God didn't seem so odd. Mothering. Eternity's Japanese Game Show. Hear me out.<br />
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If you start off on the premise that you are going to be asked to do absolutely ridiculous stuff, in an insane environment, with a benevolent set of onlookers "Ohhh'ing and Awww'ing" with noisemakers at each level, well you have it about right. In my imagination, there are a bunch of bored, but perfectly happy angels, who have nothing but holy things to do. I think I help them feel a lot better about things on THAT side of the mortal veil. I suspect that they have many tapes that they can rewind of my kids driving me bonkers for their heavenly free hours -<br />
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"I love this part where she is working on her daughter's project and she's just about to see what that boys have been up to! OOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHH! Peanut butter on the Jesus picture! Classic!" <br />
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I have a HOST of friends that feel better about their lot after hearing about mine. Its great to be in the stands, "Oh, that's too bad - oh gee, I bet you'll laugh about it later!" They don't want to enter the arena. They just want to watch the show. Like old people who tell you to enjoy it - but never offer to babysit...<br />
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Today's obstacle course, "Make sure daughter leaves with map of "Treasure Island" with attached book report notes. Your printer does not work, and you have only seconds to send it to the print shop, to have it picked up, and glued on, before school. You must keep the laundry rolling through, decide what to do with the now-dried-out angel food cake that you found, and clean up the crumbs. You must scrub all the pots and pans and run the dishwasher TWICE because the children broke the interior of the door and the spigot doesn't work half the time. There are clothes, both dirty and clean, that need to be sorted and refolded/tossed in that huge laundry pile because you went to a "How to train your children to handle Money" symposium last night, and they didn't get their clothes put away. Dinner will require that you start thawing the meat NOW or your entire dinner/evening will be messed up. You still have 6 banker boxes to fill with items for the "Build a Knight" Blue and Gold banquet that you are putting on for the Cub Scouts on Tuesday. You must mark that your daughter attended "World Thinking Day" in order to pass off her PA pin, and make arrangements with your spouse to get some things cleaned on Saturday since you will be loading up Girl Scout cookies. Your son's dental appointment is in 10 minutes and the place is 15 minutes away."<br />
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I'm sure this will be hilarious. Some day. To someone else. But that last statement is true, and its a snowy day, and I put my toddler down for a nap that I now need to snatch him up from. Ready. Set. GO! <br />
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Good luck to you, fellow mothers. I get it. It is such a crazy ride, and once on it, you can't really opt out. There is an Asian God, and he needs good ratings. I'm sure it will be high humor to someone. May you be strong to fight your daily battles. And may the odds be ever in your favor!! Next question, "Why you no repent?!"</div>
Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-17274219783286692252013-01-08T12:16:00.001-08:002013-01-08T12:16:06.806-08:00A Startling Confession<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivytpJObQzkErBfhWDZxxDZOF2URTjsbmSkTnORmvIkCd8OfGDLmd0EylZDPxcSbDpmJBGnK-reUpRPRCZg475DIOV9Y_t6QZ3z2ZpArbUlBSkaKhoxmEDvV9cmRKGWTC2vqCHgV7nTJ4/s1600/gru+book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivytpJObQzkErBfhWDZxxDZOF2URTjsbmSkTnORmvIkCd8OfGDLmd0EylZDPxcSbDpmJBGnK-reUpRPRCZg475DIOV9Y_t6QZ3z2ZpArbUlBSkaKhoxmEDvV9cmRKGWTC2vqCHgV7nTJ4/s320/gru+book.jpg" width="320" /></a>I know. It has been forever since I wrote. And there is very good reason for it. I am usually cleaning up the mess that I am now ignoring in order to vent my frustrations about take-home reading plans. Has anyone else read these "books" that are really just laminated pamphlets? In the words of Gru, "This is literature? A two-year old could have written this!"</div>
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I hate "Take Home" books. There it is. I said it. Well. Wrote it. I wrote it out loud that I despise the take-home system that involves a tiny paper "book" that they want to charge me $7.50 for when they put it in the care of a 4-8 year-old little boy. HOW STUPID IS THAT! I swear, its gotta be how they fund Area 51 or something. Along with $500 hammers the government uses. But in the hustle and bustle of "Where is your coat? And your other shoe? Did you go potty yet this morning? Let's get that peanut butter out of your hair...", I despise hunting down that stupid plastic bag! Every now and again I also see where they have sent the SAME book and circled the crumpled paper that is lacking my VIP initials.</div>
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I hate that bag. It is not for the benefit of my children, it is a torture device to parents. It is YOUR homework. I can open the bag, read the book with my child, sign off on it and tell them to put it back in their backpack. And I will find it tossed in the back of the car, or under a seat where NO ONE would ever find it who wasn't looking for a dead body! I believe there to be a group of individuals that come together and hold meetings about how they can lower the classroom size by forcing more kids into home school. Their dialogue goes something like this,<br />
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"But what can we do to utterly send them over the edge? We've been trying to get them with the cookie dough sales - but mandatorily sending home a packet that must be returned or they will forfeit $20 is just not enough. The mom's yank those from the backpack, and they return unopened 4 weeks later. UN OPENED."<br />
<br />
"Yah Bob, I think we need to have something that doesn't look that packaged. We need to make them open it up, something small. Something fragile. And just do it over and over and over. Like a whole Alphabet's worth of tiny annoying things. But I love the back and forth. I am seeing some progress on the seriously stressed out mom front. We're looking at projections of 6-10 kids per class next year..."<br />
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Do I believe in reading? YES. Do I think that my 4 year old now understands what a "Qq" is by reading about a Queen, a Quail, and a Quilt that were Quirky? No. No I don't. I think my kid will learn what a Q is because he wants to read the instructions to his RC helicopter. Or Calvin and Hobbs. It has got to be a conundrum for the Elementary school folk how these poor depraved kids don't seem to have an "active" reading exchange program, yet can still reprogram an unattended computer to display random poop smears.<br />
<br />
And where is the book they last sent home? Well, tell 'em Gru... "<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">[</span><i class="fine" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Explaining why the girls can't find their book "Three Little Kittens"</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">] <b><i>That book was accidentally destroyed maliciously... </i></b></span><br />
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Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-13684881326857657172011-11-29T04:13:00.000-08:002011-11-29T10:56:30.631-08:00Wild Hare<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.clampettstudio.com/images/archives/vross/VR1712-A-Wild-Hare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="http://www.clampettstudio.com/images/archives/vross/VR1712-A-Wild-Hare.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>About this time last year, I got a "wild hare" to do something a little nuts; donate a large Christmas Tree to the Festival of Trees - a charitable benefit for Primary Children's Hospital to help indigent families that cannot afford their child's health care. Now, I say "wild hare," because the term seems especially fitting here; <i>"<span class="answerbag_vibrant">It's an American expression meaning to do something at the spur of the moment without really thinking, spontaneity. It originated from "had a wild hare up my <insert "g"="" rated="" synonym="">". If you had a wild rabbit in your backside... you'd probably jump without thinking." </insert></span></i><span class="answerbag_vibrant">Yep.</span><br />
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<span class="answerbag_vibrant"> From the outside, it seems pretty simple. Get a tree, some ribbon, ornaments and some friends, and set it all up to donate. Sweet! But it is so very much more. Verging on the bonkers. Kind of like a gateway creativity drug. </span><br />
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<span class="answerbag_vibrant"> After attending the Festival of Trees, you get lulled into a sense of simplicity and fun and jump in, then somehow you find yourself knee deep in glue guns, latex paint and floral wire and wondering where it was that you went wrong. It is a detail heavy, expense laden, frustrating adventure in competitive creativity that will take every ounce of your, and your family's, patience and ultimately leave your self-esteem crushed to powder on the convention center floor.</span><br />
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<span class="answerbag_vibrant"> It starts... with the tree. In my naivete, I thought about how I would go about this little adventure with four small kids in tow. So I formulated a plan; shop the after-Christmas sales, use someone's tree and do a kind of "decorate-as-you-go" approach that is slow, easy paced, and thrifty. I got my tree right off the bat off of ksl.com. It was too big for their apartment and they were happy for it to go to a happy home, especially if it meant freeing up space at the beginning of the year. Come pick it up! It was being stored in a large screen tv box. Since all of the branches were <i>NOT</i> attached to the center pole, it all fit in the box! Yes yes yes! I "high fived" myself. BAM! Tree is DONE. This is so easy. What a euphoric rush!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYu4SKFiv1sM0vd2Zj7qPHy2-BJ5T7xHsjuTzLUA1hn_D1ftUHzuCK5x7p1FbH0MGnlISkJ7Cqmbg8cyar3LLAHQRCvdTF7yPze_cVtKxo52RYEqpOe39yGWhBYeCqe_HAuj74kJseG0c/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYu4SKFiv1sM0vd2Zj7qPHy2-BJ5T7xHsjuTzLUA1hn_D1ftUHzuCK5x7p1FbH0MGnlISkJ7Cqmbg8cyar3LLAHQRCvdTF7yPze_cVtKxo52RYEqpOe39yGWhBYeCqe_HAuj74kJseG0c/s320/001.JPG" width="239" /></a><span class="answerbag_vibrant"> Then I did what many addicts do, start "pushing" to the unsuspecting friends around them. "Hey Lisa, Reagan and Mish - y'all are fun and creative! Wanna help me with a little project? I'm thinking of doing a Scottish themed tree for the Festival of Trees. I already have the tree so it won't be very expensive! This will be fun!" Poor things never saw it coming, and soon, they were in.</span><br />
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<span class="answerbag_vibrant"> I hit the after Christmas sales. I only had an idea vaguely in the back of my mind what I was looking for. But hey! For 90% off, you can splurge a little here and there. Spend a quarter for a couple of boxes of candy canes, some ribbon... preferably in something that matches, some plaid of this, tree skirt for a buck there, and add some huge plastic bells. Mish can do something with those. Easy easy. Little did I know then that we would only use 2% of those items. And zero plaid ribbon.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN7-ZvUann8W_52ohkiB_yvv7LuAcdl-k3dxBejuk5cAc8Fi0vKaCtE1jesNnPoHy9nonxH0Rs6ylGe8Yeyu5y_WNzPyibAFF_94EthkZzUSoZOBz11BvBWYZ6z_9Q8N57Yfkal8k1mNc/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN7-ZvUann8W_52ohkiB_yvv7LuAcdl-k3dxBejuk5cAc8Fi0vKaCtE1jesNnPoHy9nonxH0Rs6ylGe8Yeyu5y_WNzPyibAFF_94EthkZzUSoZOBz11BvBWYZ6z_9Q8N57Yfkal8k1mNc/s320/001.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span class="answerbag_vibrant"> The website for the Festival remains dormant until about June, the earliest you can register with your theme. We tossed around some ideas of what would be fun and settled on, <i><b>"The 12 Scottish Days of Christmas." </b></i> Because that would have some fun variety, and logically follow a triangular, few-items-gradating-to-many-items pattern, and I hadn't seen anything like it at the festival. It would stand out against all the elf and red/white candy cane tree white noise. Perfect! I registered us online, and wavered, for just a second, before I hit the "send" button. In a flash, we were in. Committed to the Festival of Trees 'til donated tree do we part.</span><br />
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<span class="answerbag_vibrant">I said to myself, "Just follow the pattern, make it Scottish, maybe get a few signs and a "Wee kirk o' the Heather" birdhouse, and hand out assignments. Easy" And my little brain said, "Use a bagpipe as a star on the very top!" and my internal creativity meter said, "Oh yeah! We're strong enough to handle that, with some tiger blood and Adonis DNA, this will be a SNAP!" That was the highest point of self confidence. Then we got the packet. And that feeling that you get at the most tippy top of the roller coaster where instinct tells you to suck in a lot of air and grip the bar in front of you hit: The Official Rules and Regulations. And things started to unravel. The feeling that you desperately want to get out, but you feel trapped was settling in. Just when you think you can get out... they pull you back in!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLovOjVT0DwoPPyL-0Samx-PWIClo6pDjIuVEz60GxUGspH_I-ZHvs29od7EE62qyM99wUkiacnR6m2ObLxNL2jtpFPhe-YXhJKy9kh9CPeCg-n0TKOhvOjIqw5l7FdCYOVFgjDcGIU7s/s1600/007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLovOjVT0DwoPPyL-0Samx-PWIClo6pDjIuVEz60GxUGspH_I-ZHvs29od7EE62qyM99wUkiacnR6m2ObLxNL2jtpFPhe-YXhJKy9kh9CPeCg-n0TKOhvOjIqw5l7FdCYOVFgjDcGIU7s/s200/007.JPG" width="200" /></a><span class="answerbag_vibrant"> Your tree must be new. *eyes bulge* All of the branches must have been attached to the center pole <i><b>at the factory</b></i>. It must have pvc pipe the length of the interior pole. The outside part of the trunk must be reinforced with rebar, and clamped down with vent hose ties. *sweat springing to forehead* Each section of your tree must be bolted together at the joints. And if it breaks, you agree to come and fix it. At your expense. Oh... and little note there towards the bottom, the tree stand, must be an official Festival of Trees $30 metal wonder that we will need to pick up at the Decorators workshop. Where you will be given further instructions... "Further... instructions? There's more?" *acne breakout* </span><br />
<span class="answerbag_vibrant"> I nervously started calling and texting everyone, "Uh, hey, um. We should probably start figuring out what ornaments we're each going to do, so... ah, anybody got any ideas? I'm starting to get pressure from da guys up there, and its all signed up, ya know? We need to have a good product..." I was becoming fidgety, and irritated. Scottish things, Scottish things. Like, like the bagpipe and plaid... and ah, well, the flag, which is blue and white... not very Christmassy... and kilts maybe? So I researched the daylights out of Scotland... trying to match up the 12 Days song against items that might be considered a Scottish counterpart, and that would ultimately end up with a bagpipe in a Christmas tree. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdDAMYeX6Sl7u5l3-QszmN1lvE8T5XpxDS1RHKncfk6BEmrJtmWQZi580Dd1mHB8vu1ldGqUnh-L3__axvXsRCYogoOXhiX01TwPMrkp0b_Dy2HSXDijwJjDBtdIfy_czYRocUSLURnU0/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdDAMYeX6Sl7u5l3-QszmN1lvE8T5XpxDS1RHKncfk6BEmrJtmWQZi580Dd1mHB8vu1ldGqUnh-L3__axvXsRCYogoOXhiX01TwPMrkp0b_Dy2HSXDijwJjDBtdIfy_czYRocUSLURnU0/s320/001.JPG" width="240" /></a><span class="answerbag_vibrant"> Then I let everyone pick which ornaments they wanted to do, because if everyone took 3 off the list, no one would get overwhelmed. Because, as I was discovering, there ARE no Scottish ornaments in Utah. <i>Especially</i> not in the summer/fall. And when you add up The 12 Days of Christmas... you find yourself in need of a total of <b>78</b> custom made ornaments. "Pick which 3 you feel like your have the creativity and inspiration to do," I cheerily texted with sweaty palms. I'll just take what's left over at the end. I can do this. I'm in control. No sweat.</span><br />
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<span class="answerbag_vibrant">Which turned out to be 11 bagpipers piping, 9 kimmers (ladies) jigging, and... the one bagpipe. "No one... no one else wants to go find a bagpipe? Its the easiest one, cuz you just have to find <i><b>one</b></i>, just one..." Surely someone has one in a closet somewhere that they aren't using, because if I had to buy one, it'd be over $5oo. I'll just use Facebook, and ask around. <b>*crickets chirping.*</b> Apparently there are NOT a lot of bagpipers out there with an extra set of pipes they want to donate. Weird. </span><br />
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<span class="answerbag_vibrant"> In the crafting world, everyone knows that there are limits to what you can take on, and 3/4 of our decorators had 4 kids. EACH. And now I found myself scrambling to find a tree topper bag pipe. In a Festival of Trees approved, rebarred and clamped, metal stand, with a surge protector 8 foot outlet cord, and skirted, branches-attached-to-the-core tree. Each ornament would have to be wired to the tree with any wood and/or paper being sprayed with <i>flame retardant</i>. Oh, I'll just go pull out my stash of flame retardant! Retardant indeed. "Full Scale Panic" doesn't quite describe how this easy little project started to make my heart thump and anxiety to settle in. "I'm in over my head! How did this happen?! Why didn't someone have the good sense to warn me about this!?" I needed a crafters rehab facility to detox and get my head straight.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Hez6c8dFXcDE3Md87rKVzTUBBJM27QsmzTEWYMEQc-2n6um8qgbuxfaeIUpR-DwU6JtSMboBsiQAmoIakvY1Qw-YJJyNXzTKHtqKv1RmwMwyRBascZuNCUo0tYG9GBqXPMRlpdaemSw/s1600/002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Hez6c8dFXcDE3Md87rKVzTUBBJM27QsmzTEWYMEQc-2n6um8qgbuxfaeIUpR-DwU6JtSMboBsiQAmoIakvY1Qw-YJJyNXzTKHtqKv1RmwMwyRBascZuNCUo0tYG9GBqXPMRlpdaemSw/s320/002.JPG" width="240" /></a><span class="answerbag_vibrant"> What saved me in the end was not an escape, but rather an intervention by my friends and family. And a glue gun and my sewing machine. And an angel of mercy bagpiper named Brian who ordered a "set o' pipes" from Pakistan that were supposed to have ebony pipes, but which turned out to be painted wood, so he donated them. And Spot Technology Inc. that was willing to front the cost of the tree after Craig Johnson pled my cause. As I clawed my way back from the brink of crafters oblivion, everyone stepped up to my wild hare cause and donated time, talents, ornaments, vinyl, the tree, a quilt, signs, frames, pearls, an original signed comic strip, and yards and yards of <i>plain</i> red ribbon to counterbalance all of that plaid.</span><br />
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<span class="answerbag_vibrant"> Its all set up now. We are the little 8' tree in slot O-02, next to the Brighton Ski Resort panoramic double-occupancy space with the ginormous custom built dog house, tree full of Snoopy dogs with Woodstock topper, against a faux mountain backdrop and miniature ski lift with airbrushed waist-high cutouts of all of the Peanuts characters. Yep, that's us. And its the only one with a bagpipe. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiajZqaL4J0RVl5Siuera6H0gccVzCOUQiWOv5PdKll4vrtya_F4_5p8ehdsYEtUWcOBX3NhM0al7T5DV1nus3KbQ8Vwz92Ggf3J2tecdd8Gw3Ft1CS8QHrOi6_IOkBsB2vIzPJyDoMTxQ/s1600/011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiajZqaL4J0RVl5Siuera6H0gccVzCOUQiWOv5PdKll4vrtya_F4_5p8ehdsYEtUWcOBX3NhM0al7T5DV1nus3KbQ8Vwz92Ggf3J2tecdd8Gw3Ft1CS8QHrOi6_IOkBsB2vIzPJyDoMTxQ/s320/011.JPG" width="239" /></a><span class="answerbag_vibrant">And: 12 Drummers Drummin, 11 bagpipers pipin', 10 Lords a Golfin', 9 Kimmers Jiggin', 8 Argyle Stockings, 7 Loch Ness Monsters, 6 Scots Grey's layin', 5 Scottie Dogs, 4 Shortbread Rounds, 3 Plaid kilts, and 2 Wooly sheep on a Spot Techonology's donated Christmas tree. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="answerbag_vibrant"> The Festival of Trees will be in need of someone to fill that space next year. I've learned my lesson. This hare is now tamed, subdued, and properly humbled by the sheer goodwill of friends, family, and community that do this successfully year after year. I think its a worthy cause, and the lessons I take away from this are valuable and unexpected. Nollaig cridheil huibh everybody. That's a Gaelic "Merry Christmas." Peace out!</span><br />
<span class="answerbag_vibrant"> </span></div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-87468909382541633522011-11-15T20:18:00.000-08:002011-11-29T10:54:17.986-08:00Musical Chores<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_3liKowRRfLHFDcObR7N9z_C8NK-pSTuJYcRVdm6cATP32mjGCKi9mbY8Fw-RwtQj3ncr7zigGtub8bGVsA09h1ETehmyrOhn7KMYISE6QZRFHu5PnRfeWoUDpm4ISI4bYHc7vOC0H1M/s400/Plate-Spinner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_3liKowRRfLHFDcObR7N9z_C8NK-pSTuJYcRVdm6cATP32mjGCKi9mbY8Fw-RwtQj3ncr7zigGtub8bGVsA09h1ETehmyrOhn7KMYISE6QZRFHu5PnRfeWoUDpm4ISI4bYHc7vOC0H1M/s320/Plate-Spinner.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Parenting, for me, has been an evolution of "figuring it out." It took me a while to understand that a mom without a game plan is just about as useful as a poopy flavored lollipop. Recently, I have become more philosophical about the whole process of raising a family of 6, and making some informal inquiries about the way different people cope with raising their children. I have learned a few things about expectations and technique. <br />
<br />
First: You can not just "get along go along," with four small kids. Or at least MY four kids. Though running and crying in the bathroom often seems like a good option, the problems that sent you there will still be waiting for you when you emerge from that sanctuary.<br />
Second: You need a game plan. And a flexible one at that.<br />
Third: Good habits are hard to make, but easy to live with.<br />
<br />
As a stay-at-home-mom, or SAHM, I am offended by the general malaise out there that says that all we do is lounge around in pajamas and frizzy hair. Not so. This is the nitty gritty of living and raising humans. You have to be on top of your game. All day. Every day. In essence, to keep it altogether, you must become like the plate spinner who must keep an eye on a lot of things simultaneously to keep it working smoothly, lest it all come crashing down on you. Not for the faint of heart.<br />
<br />
So I am trying something new. I am trying to transition my children from simply resource consumers to participating citizens in our household. With good habits. And I'm using music. I happened upon this technique after observing a number of parenting style options and an ad from http://choresgetdone.com/. I have been evolving through these parenting styles:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://images.wikia.com/roalddahl/images/4/4e/Veruca_salt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://images.wikia.com/roalddahl/images/4/4e/Veruca_salt.jpg" width="313" /></a></div>1) <u><b>Mom Does It All:</b></u> This model is one that looks at children as mere consumers of mommy and daddy's time, patience, and other resources. Kinda like Veruca Salt of Charlie's Chocolate Factory fame. Since birth, the only expectation is that they will come when called, and maybe eat the broccoli off their plate. They are pampered and frequently peppered with suggestions about what they want, and begged - more than asked - to do things to help themselves out. This works with a small child or two. This does NOT work with crowd control.<br />
<br />
"Would you like some milk? 2%, 1%? Skim? Want some chocolate milk? How 'bout I get you some chocolate milk, hmm?"<br />
<br />
These kiddos are not expected to help out, and wake up with everything having been done for them. If left unchecked, they tend to operate independent of any understanding that their upkeep requires a lot of work. And when they enter the big wide world on their own, they have nary a clue how to take care of themselves because Mummy did it all. A bad egg indeed.<br />
<br />
2) <u><b>Mom Supervises It All</b></u>: This model is a hybrid of the Consumer/Citizen. And this is where we have been living most recently. Some kids are old enough for chores, and some are not. The children outnumber me 4:1. They have chores that they are expected to complete, but if no one is going to check up on it, then the children scheme for how to have an "out." The modified rules are, "You have to do what mom asks you to if you are directly under her gaze, but if a request is sent from a distance, like, "GO BRUSH YOUR TEETH!" you can weigh the probabilities that you will ACTUALLY get checked on to have to complete the task." Multiple requests from mom for the same task become a "cat and mouse," game to see who will last, who will get it done, and who will get caught. And the more children there are in a family, the safer it becomes to just wait for the request to blow over.<br />
<br />
After all, dinner will still be on the table, and if you feel like bowing out of clean-up time, just dawdle, and maybe stay in the bathroom for a while until someone notices that you are gone. There is the occasional time when mom's frustration mounts to the point that the children see their mother's face become detached from her skull, and at that point most kids will just get out of the way. But even that will, more often than not, only get you sent to your room - NOT on the road to completing the task.<br />
<br />
Though not ideal, this is a workable plan for moms, but something usually gets lost along the way: Mom's personality.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://30.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_llrij0cFsM1qig27co1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="http://30.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_llrij0cFsM1qig27co1_500.jpg" width="320" /></a>Much like "Bootstrap" Bill Turner who became enslaved on The Flying Dutchman, "I am the ship, part of the ship, part of the crew," running a household can suck you in and remove any traces of your former identity. There is more work to do, than time to do it in. And it is relentless, unchartable, and unstable. Sickness, forgotten homework, emergencies, and kids bouncing on the bed can throw a typical day onto an ad hoc schedule.<br />
<br />
When you have many young children, there are also a lot of needs, but very few helpers. The tedium really starts to drag you down, and there is no quick fix. The work you just completed is undone moments after you thought you were finished. Cheerios, in the hands of a toddler, can become everything from glue to a hail storm of pellets and powder. You mournfully think back to the days when you would read a book, take a karate class, or do ANYTHING creative and fun.<br />
<br />
After all, that's what you were when you got married! Fun, vivacious, full of ideas and energy. Now, you feel like a warden-banshee roaming through the house, and you hardly recognize yourself anymore. You think back to the time when you would say to your friends, "Hey! Lets get some popcorn and go see a movie!" With so many things to stay on top of, that gives way to a lethargic, "Get your shoes out of the living room... please. Now. NOW! *wait* Right NOW! I've already told you THREE TIMES! Just move them for heaven's sake!"<br />
<br />
I don't want to stay in this mode. So I am trying to transition to a new mode. The, "You are a citizen of this household," mode. And we will<i><b> all </b></i>be doing things to contribute to keeping it running. "Many hands make light work."<br />
<br />
3) <u><i><b>Family Citizenship:</b></i></u> In this model, you are able to train with positive reinforcement, and self-guidance. And it involves a playlist, a routine, and a reward. The children help you select songs that are associated with a specific task. When that upbeat music plays, each family member completes that task. If you finish all of the tasks before the music ran out, you get a point that will cumulatively count towards a reward.<br />
<br />
We started on Sunday, and I gotta say, I am ELATED with the results. The kids are racing against the clock. And since each task is completed each morning, there isn't a huge mess build up. Laundry is dealt with in a timely fashion, and after the kids skip merrily off to school, everyone is dressed down to the shoes, and I can walk down the hall and peer into one tidy room after another. I start feeling like myself again. Contemplating what would be fun for the day, not just how to deal with the overwhelming mess. Things will evolve when the kids get older. But for now, this is working for me:<br />
<br />
So, for your pleasure here is our first playlist and the tasks we ALL complete before the songs are finished:<br />
<br />
<i>"You are my Sunshine"</i> - Get up and meet in the living room<br />
<i>"The Queen of Mars"</i> - Kids take meds<br />
<i>"Good Mornin'! "</i> - Make your bed<br />
<i>"Birdhouse in Your Soul"</i> - Pick up your room<br />
<i>"Vogue"</i> - Get dressed<br />
<i>"A-G-L-E-T"</i> - Get your shoes on<br />
<i>"Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini"</i> - put any stray laundry away <br />
<i>"Scripture Power"</i> - Meet in the kitchen for scripture study/ get your scriptures out.<br />
eat breakfast while dressed and do WHATEVER YOU WANT until its time to go. Parents shower and get dressed in a tidy room with kids all ready to go.<br />
<i>"Ray of Light"</i> - Brush your teeth<br />
<i>"So Long/Farewell"</i> - get your backpack/coat/jacket on, and get out to the car.<br />
<br />
We still need to get a "vacuum your room" song, but what has gotten us this far has me just over the moon with delight. No shouting. No having to say "HURRY!" a bazillion times in the morning. No being left with a trashed house and a depressed momma. *pats heart* Everyone just gets ready, and does it themselves to be-boppin music. Am I willing to give my kids a play date every once in a while to maintain this? OH YES. Hopefully it will sink in for each child, that the small and frequent things that they do in a day help to contribute to happy home, a happy living space, and a happy mama. Wish me luck.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://geniussquared.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/luck-clover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://geniussquared.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/luck-clover.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-63715861700463371512011-11-13T22:38:00.000-08:002011-11-14T11:04:21.696-08:00The "Real" Christmas Letter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://images.christmastimeclipart.com/images/2/1249506683937_897/img_page-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://images.christmastimeclipart.com/images/2/1249506683937_897/img_page-01.jpg" width="154" /></a></div>Every year about this time of year, I begin to compose, in my mind, a Crane Family Christmas Letter. A general, "Hey this is what's going on in our lives" kinda catch up for those that don't live near, don't visit, and assume that we are living life from vacation to vacation, party to party, and grace to grace. So in my mind I try and bridge the gap between that imagined reality and my reality. But the truth just keeps getting in the way.<br />
<br />
I wish I could write the "real" Christmas letter where the peek into our lives leaves you with a sense of my day to day and what REALLY goes on behind these closed doors. Not a horror show, but the real scratch your butt, half pajama wearin', we are-SO-not-perfect - kind of letter. Why? I dunno. Hopefully so we can climb down off of your pedestals and have you say, "HEY LOOK! They're just like us!"<br />
<br />
During the 13 years we've been married there have been rough years, and it never fails that when you are at your lowest ebb that the Christmas cards come in. They come from those whom you only marginally like, and don't care to vacation with. You can spot the soul crushing Christmas Cards among the bills, notices and fliers because they are so much bigger than the rest. You kinda use it as a mail platter to carry in the rest of the mail into your hum drum life.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.heartfeltcreations.us/blog/blogcontent/October122011/tn_bluse_spruce_white_glenda_brooks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://www.heartfeltcreations.us/blog/blogcontent/October122011/tn_bluse_spruce_white_glenda_brooks.jpg" width="320" /></a>Somewhat out of curiosity, and the realization that you don't have anything else to do, you grab it. The glittering silver envelopes with embossed paper, embellished stamps and hand written calligraphy making your residence seem akin in importance to The White House. I get these and I run a dialogue in my mind that can only be considered sarcastic.<br />
<br />
"Dear Katrina and Family!" (why does the wife of my ex-boyfriend insist on keeping me on their card list? I don't think he told her about that one date where a lot of spit was exchanged....). Well, hooray for you Kristin. You figured out how to make every form letter look personalized. Just like the credit card companies and Publisher's Clearinghouse. And the "signature" at the bottom is in the exact same ink as the letter. You're not fooling me!<br />
<br />
"Happy Holidays to our friends living near and far..." Oh gosh - please no. Here we go. <br />
"We hope your year was a blessed and delightful one." OH Shut up. It has been the year from hell.<br />
"As we ponder the significance of the season, we decided to spend our Holy Day holiday in the Holy Land! It is going to be a Magical Christmas in Bethlehem. We'll be staying in the Inn, and our nanny is so delighted to try out the stables." Awesome. Annnnnd I..... hope y'all don't get shot or kidnapped or both.<br />
<br />
"After a whirlwind tour of Jerusalem, Mr. Johnson and I will be surprising our 7 children as we usher in a bright 2012 as special guests of the Monte Martre Sailors club to watch the ball drop for the New Year atop the Eiffel Tower! Oui! PARIE!"<br />
<br />
You spelled that wrong idiot. Its Paris. Even when you're saying it pear-ie. Why on earth are you allowed to travel to places that you can't even spell correctly? Too busy having 7 kids and sailing, clearly. Life is SO not fair.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.teachwithmovies.org/guides/nutcracker-DVDcover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.teachwithmovies.org/guides/nutcracker-DVDcover.jpg" width="144" /></a></div>"But right now we are all a flutter! Our 5 girls will be dancing in 'The Nutcracker Ballet with the Chekoslovakian Orchestra and Ballet Troop, with Yale as first alternate for the role of Clara."<br />
<br />
Yale. Seriously? And there's a "z" in Chezech.. Chezk... There's a "z" in there somewhere! Idiot. And its a "troupe" not a "troop" like a bunch of scouts. Still can't spell. Where is your spell-check woman? Five girls in ballet. That's a lot of tutus. And hairspray. Better keep all of them away from an open flame or they'll all spontaneously combust. *evil giggle* I don't even know if Czechoslovakia has a decent orchestra.<br />
<br />
Reading line for line stops, and then you start to scan, "boys, in band... electric guitar... blah blah, debate, chess club, Honor Society... perfect perfect, kids memorizing "The Family, A Proclamation to the World," awesome, and she is keeping up with everything by running. A full marathon. Every month. Freaking Awesome. I only run when chased. OH! Designing a new house with 4 car garage for the new boat. Of course. Skip to the end.<br />
<br />
I used to lay on the floor after getting these letters and just drift into a full-on depression until some child stepped on me, "MAM! Where's the JUICE?!"<br />
"Your sister drank it all. We're OUT of juice."<br />
"Why are you on the floor?"<br />
"Mommy's just looking for... something."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.srmtenv.org/images/gifs/barrel.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.srmtenv.org/images/gifs/barrel.gif" width="105" /></a></div>Then one day, I lamented this very sentiment to my friend, Melanie Steele, who gave me the perfect solution: Burn 'em! She said to me, "Just take all of those cards and burn 'em in the trash. It's very soothing and cathartic to watch those glitters go up in smoke! Just don't do it around the smoke detectors... You'll be letting in subzero air to try and get those smoke detectors to turn off again."<br />
<br />
*sob!* Oh soul sister! You understand! You understand that when you think of all the wonderful and truthful things you could say about the family this year, you realize that it is not exactly flattering Christmas Card material! "We went up to Yellowstone and saw a big brown bear sleeping on top of an Elk carcass!"<br />
<br />
I mean, how can you put a good spin on the fact that your 3yr old eats boogers and laughs his butt off when you scold him not to do it because it is SO GROSS!? He may, in fact, be doing it TO gross me out! Or that one of the kids cut their own hair up to here, and the other had a picture perfect bedroom suite until they flung pulled pork on the fake peau de soie curtains and melted laffy taffy on the light bulb of their reading lamp just to make the neighbor kids laugh? And even the good news has a rotten side, like the fact that even though you set up a tent for the first time in a decade, you waited too long to take it down and now have a perfect square of dead grass in the back yard! You can't really spin that! <br />
<br />
But everyone else seems to be doing it. And effortlessly. If someone asks me one more time if I'd like to contribute my creative genius for projects, and have a super good camera to blog about my amazing kids birthday parties that I was supposed to have planned with antiques, a Cricut machine, a riding saddle and .... TAPE, I think I'm just gonna LOSE IT! Melting into a puddle of my own mediocre shame, I have had to devise a plan to get me through this year. There is only only one way out. TO LIE.<br />
<br />
"We are having a banner year!" Maybe we could do a Christmas card theme with banners. Abigail won first place.... for .... ARBOR day for her short story about a TREE. Benjamin can spell 90, no <b>900</b> words PERFECTLY, and Sam and Za play... EDUCATIONAL games together. Because Dora the Explorer enhances a child's learning of the world around them and... Spanish and ... SWIPER NO SWIPING!!! Ethics! And then what do I say about me?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9M6_bWXhzbWjmaxakrpxz2CAzLch0J-17ILCBggyjm2i8rgaivOygBEmUp2Y871N_6np0YBmqqi-WeGf7vC1Wl2i3eLZ-sXzTc7LP1XjzNYJFs5_D-kSPLKzGyoA6Ep_cwewMZv_qxGF/s640/hoarding+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9M6_bWXhzbWjmaxakrpxz2CAzLch0J-17ILCBggyjm2i8rgaivOygBEmUp2Y871N_6np0YBmqqi-WeGf7vC1Wl2i3eLZ-sXzTc7LP1XjzNYJFs5_D-kSPLKzGyoA6Ep_cwewMZv_qxGF/s640/hoarding+2.jpg" /></a></div>Oh man. Truthfully I am at a stage in my life where my car and appliances are just about the most dear and important things in my life - like next to air. I can <u><i><b>not</b></i></u> have a vacuum break, or a fridge, or a dishwasher, and heaven forbid it, my washing machine and dryer go out on me. It would only take 3 days to go from "tidy-ish" to "Hoarders - Buried Alive!" candidate. <br />
<br />
What did I do this year? Well, I've worked my appliances like galley slaves. They run a couple of times a day, every day. Its not like those young married days, or I assume Old Farty days, where you can just go without one if it breaks until you save and/or research to get exactly what you want.<br />
<br />
A clink under the bumper makes me break out into a cold sweat, and finding a hammer in the dryer is actually a relief because at least I know how to fix that. It is a 180 degree difference from what it was like when we first got married. I didn't <i><b>need</b></i> a vacuum. I think it was actually years before I actually bought a vacuum. We just borrowed our neighbors vacuum once a week to get the dust bunnies that collected around our apartment since we were both gone all the time.<br />
<br />
Now. Now we vacuum daily, and if someone is coming over, we start to vacuum HOURLY. Instead of sucking up dust bunnies, this powerhouse has to take down legos, cereal, dry wall, play dough, ribbons, yarn, shredded paper, pencil shards, screws shaken from various chairs and chunks of food that the baby could not be coaxed into eating and the children could not be imposed upon to pick up. With a severely skewed ratio of messers to tidiers, it is a marathon of picking up, loading up, cleaning up, and putting up with a lot of crying. When I go to the bank and they offer suckers, I say, "Yes, just please make them all the same color!"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.destinationhollywood.com/movies/gonewiththewind/images/gonewiththewind_quote31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.destinationhollywood.com/movies/gonewiththewind/images/gonewiththewind_quote31.jpg" /></a></div>*siiiiiiiiiiigh* And after all the angels are in bed, and my brain tells me that, "ITS NOW OR NEVER! JUST WRITE IT! WRITE THAT CHRISTMAS LETTER!!!" Suddenly lying about it all seems like such an effort. And I wonder, can I do the OTHER option, and just not send any at all... is it possible to GET cards without sending them? My brain hurts thinking about it, and now that I need to get that next load of laundry out, I think I will just have to pull a Scarlett O'Hara, "I can't think about that nawh. I'll think about it tomorrah..." But in the meantime, please don't kick me off your Christmas card list just yet. We're running low on tinder...<br />
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</div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-26914946516582935012011-10-18T11:10:00.000-07:002011-10-18T11:10:32.432-07:00Now We See Through the Bead Darkly<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhUaiNKb_FZL8FqAcUU0bEA5fnuVvCoRuEhO8U1RYxHTilDwfTQdxqe_aCGYQiYCrfV1IrpDxefiKL-n2szKJnmR0SFadLFJZyutuTWyXFoZiTFZwL-OBKhoj_XCIRjjBGvMhOEkjEKQ8/s1600/011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhUaiNKb_FZL8FqAcUU0bEA5fnuVvCoRuEhO8U1RYxHTilDwfTQdxqe_aCGYQiYCrfV1IrpDxefiKL-n2szKJnmR0SFadLFJZyutuTWyXFoZiTFZwL-OBKhoj_XCIRjjBGvMhOEkjEKQ8/s320/011.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>This past weekend I went back to Trefoil ranch, a camping area run by the Girl Scouts, for an adult training in preparation for their Camporee next summer. I don't want to miss it, and I don't want Abigail to miss it since they will be celebrating 100 years of Girl Scouts. Lots of cookie sales over the last 30 years have improved the Trefoil camp property considerably. When I went there as a young girl, the main hall was a log cabin, one main room, dark, and poorly lit dealie-O. Now it is more akin to a Swiss Chalet. But it was here that I learned one of the most poignant lessons of my youth: sometimes the bad things that happen to you in life can turn out to be pretty valuable.<br />
<br />
When I first arrived at Trefoil, I was about 8 years old. I went with my Girl Scout troop to my first sleepover camp. In order to break up girls from the various troops and help them to get to know other girls, they had a system the first day you arrived of shuffling you into the log cabin to register you and handing you an identifying bracelet. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51eAG+x24yL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51eAG+x24yL.jpg" width="273" /></a></div> Since we all arrived at nearly the same time, we all had a long time to hear the opening spiel, and kinda go through a bottleneck process of checking in, and getting a bracelet, while also learning a knot-tying skill. It was a long line. <br />
We got to get a good look at the beads that went on the bracelets. Though not spoken, every girl <i><b>knew</b></i> that the success or failure of her entire camp rested in those little trays. You had time to casually look up and down the line of registering scouts and secretly hoped that the girl sucking her thumb with one hand and clutching a ratty stuffed dog while desperately clinging with the other hand, white knuckled, to her mom with the other, did NOT end up in your group. Those kids were no fun and often slowed everything down. I never could understand kids that had to be persuaded to have fun. "Won't you come play? Tell us your name?" Gah! Go home wimp! <br />
Anyway, I broke my gaze from checking out the line to check out the bead trays. They looked like so many gems sparkling. There were ones that looked like diamonds, pink ones, light blues ones and ... what I hoped to get, a yellow bead. Because yellow is my favorite color, and if you can score your favorite color, well then the world can go on! But I'd settle for a diamond one and still be happy. Diamonds are the most valuable.<br />
Somewhere in there was a tray of black beads. Every girl in that line knew that you did NOT want to get saddled with the black bead. It was Uh-uh-uuuuuugLY! Yet as I started to count the girls in line, and pair it up with the bead rotation, I could see that I was headed straight for that black bead. Oh no. OH NONONONONOooooo!!! My survival skillz started kicking in.<br />
Unfortunately for me, so did the girl's behind me, as I casually asked, "Hey, you wanna go ahead of me?" "Uh NOOooooOO!" It was that snotty, sarcastic "no" that says, "Na ah girl, I ain't takin' no black bead for you..." Then we hit the first station. <br />
"Hi, I'm Katydid! Who are you?" (checks me of on the roster) "Welcome! You need to think of a camp name and get your camp bracelet. Here is your gold bracelet string, don't lose it. Next you'll get your bead from Raven, learn to tie a square knot from Kanga, and then be sorted into your groups!"<br />
I held my string and walked like I was on Death Row to the bead table where Raven was waiting for me with the black bead already in her hand. It took all my nerve, but I asked, "Can I have a yellow one?" Her look was IMMEDIATE exasperation. "Why is everyone trying to get out of this one? I like it the best!" I gave her a look that must have said, "Well then YOU wear it!" because she plopped it in my hand in a way that said, "Here you go and don't argue about it." I took my black bead, with such dread, over to the knot tying station where other girls were showing off their sparkly beads. "I got a diamond one!" WHOOPIE for you. But I couldn't argue that scoring the clear diamond bead was awesome, and therefore she must be awesome. Her friend crowed, "I got a yellow one! I LOVE yellow!" I decided then and there that I hated that girl.<br />
Still waiting to learn to tie my knot, I tried to discern if there was anyone waiting with me who was unhappy with their bead choice, and found one scout complaining about the light blue bead she got - which, though NOT yellow, would at least be an upgrade from black. "I wanted PINK!" she boobed. I saddled up to her and said in a very cheerful and HELPFUL way, "Hey! I'll trade you!" She perked up, until she saw what I had. "Uh, no, that's okay...." I decided that I would hate her too. Meanie. <br />
Minutes later, I had a black bead tied securely on my wrist. Kids don't really swear to themselves in their head, they just feel rotten. And I did. We were supposed to go outside and stand by our camping gear. I knew that camp was a failure. I was going to have a rotten time, get the rotten kids in my group, and have to wear a rotten rotten ugly bead.<br />
<a href="http://www.markdownalley.com/products/WSB_303_PRPL_close.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.markdownalley.com/products/WSB_303_PRPL_close.jpg" width="156" /></a> Then things suddenly changed. I don't exactly remember where I saw it, but I know that it stopped me in my tracks. In the sunlight, and out of that musty old registration cabin, I discovered that I didn't have a black bead after all. It was dark<b><u><i> PURPLE</i></u></b>. And the purple lacquer bead next to the gold elastic band was stunning. It was gorgeous, and definitely enviable, because suddenly the other girls were noticing it too.<br />
The beads that had looked sparkly in the dark looked a lot more like cheap plastic in the light. Little Miss Light Blue Bead came up to me, "Hey... still wanna trade?" "Uh, that's okay...." I said, trying not to let her know that I had decided to hate her, and it served her right for not trading with me in the first place. As she jealously looked on, I let my dark purple bead twinkle in the sunlight so you could see all of the light and dark colors. And my dread absolutely evaporated. What was once dreaded was now coveted. I HAD THE COOLEST BRACELET CAMP TREFOIL COULD OFFER! And it was mineminemine!!! Camp was wonderful again. <br />
Flash forward about 30 years. Now I have four kids. Even as we speak, they are driving me up THE WALL. In the 5 minutes that they were up, and I was mustering the will to face another day of laundry, dishes, dinner and poopy diapers, my quilt project was flung around the house, a whole container of chocolate chips was dumped on the floor, and I can smell the diaper that needs to be changed. It will wait for me. For me, these are stressful, dark days. It is hard. It is tedious. There are more messers than cleaners. Hubby is waist deep in his career, and at the end of the day, after dinner, prayers, pajamas and stories, we are pretty well spent. It is the bottle neck of a young family. It doesn't seem like it will ever end. And the creativity of our children that is expressed on walls, chopped up clothes, pulled pork on the ceiling, and animals made out of straws has made other parents grateful that they got the children they have. And sometimes I envy them. "Look! They don't sass; they just do what their mom says! I'd heard of these rare children, but I'd never seen one. And they have FIVE!"<br />
Girl Scouts has taught me though, that if you wait a bit, and take things out into the sun, that those things that seemed dark will have a deep luster that will make them the envy of all. Paul told us as much when he wrote to the Corinthians (Ch 13): <br />
<div class="highlight"><i><a class="bookmark-anchor dontHighlight" href="" name="12"> </a><span class="verse">12 </span>For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.</i></div><div class=""><i><a class="bookmark-anchor dontHighlight" href="" name="13"> </a><span class="verse">13 </span>And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these <span class="clarityWord">is</span> charity.</i></div><br />
I didn't know then, how much I would need that lesson in my life. I don't hate people so easily, and when I am handed dark beads in my life, I try to imagine what they will look like in the light, and what I will be at that point, as a person. So, it is on to another day of faith, hope and charity. Faith that it will be worth it, hope that things will work out, and charity for my family... whom I love. Even though they drive me up the wall. And no, I don't want to trade with you. It may not seem like it right now, but I got the best there is, and they're minemine mine! :D</div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-66996935625098362562011-10-08T22:37:00.000-07:002011-10-09T22:49:05.074-07:00"Don't Share" Salsa<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.childinjurylawyerblog.com/child%20hands%20open%20palms%20black%20background%20child%20abuse%20and%20child%20neglect.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.childinjurylawyerblog.com/child%20hands%20open%20palms%20black%20background%20child%20abuse%20and%20child%20neglect.jpg" /></a></div><--- If you have these, and can chop, you can make this amazing canned salsa. I call it "Don't Share" Salsa because it is SO GOOD, you don't want to share it. <i>Even</i> if you had a<i> bathtub-full</i>, you would <u><i><b>not</b></i></u> invite anyone over for a party. You would just stock up on chips, lock yourself in there, and tell your hubby you had feminine problems for a month. It is SO nummy! Its fresh, it tastes good on chips, and you kinda want to lick the bowl when you see that there is some in the bottom that won't fit on a chip.<br />
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The first time I made it, I did it to support my sister who wanted to have a cooking day together. I wasn't fast enough to come up with an alternative to canning salsa. I was thinkin, "Why are we doing this? Yes I'm Mormon, Yes my mother and.... probably a ton of pioneer relatives canned... stuff, but that is why the good lord invented <i>Pace</i> picante sauce in three different sized jars." I chopped onions and I chopped peppers while my sister Lisa busied herself, and I thought, "You crazy woman. Why. On. Earth." And then I had some. MMMMMMMMMMMMMMM! Oh my word. OH MY WORD! SO GOOD! So amazingly good!!<br />
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Good grief, I gotta go eat some right now while I write about it. BRB. !#@!&%$##! Its 10 pm and WE ARE OUT OF CHIPS! GOSH DARN IT! I told Matthew that we could open a jar of salsa if would go out and get some chips. Yah. The garage door is going up. And now I'm like a nervous smoker 3 days after they tried to quit. "C'moooooon. C'mon! HURRY IT UP!"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir5hJxqFgQeGTN3YSnZddPld2glUxui-rFROcnaN_KogXGHpHU71wY3nv_uqLysuj0TfDgcx5C8HrDp4zskstJ2uYvQUrVyZOMTKe0EBMyBYxfjT-WI_bNZvI9sji4l4H-5KWYss-ThKY/s1600/004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir5hJxqFgQeGTN3YSnZddPld2glUxui-rFROcnaN_KogXGHpHU71wY3nv_uqLysuj0TfDgcx5C8HrDp4zskstJ2uYvQUrVyZOMTKe0EBMyBYxfjT-WI_bNZvI9sji4l4H-5KWYss-ThKY/s200/004.JPG" width="149" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZc4FSMSTsyzg-D3vpCK7ZHG9Rm55G5BSVjtWyKKp3r2ubjNvzp3nDYgH8NW0MtWUOvKonxPRhDOAYnPhOOIXKMSqWEyGOCY4Uce1-Vy626dSVe7vBAArWil_oNFZtUkdg5-3VpZMgGbc/s1600/004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZc4FSMSTsyzg-D3vpCK7ZHG9Rm55G5BSVjtWyKKp3r2ubjNvzp3nDYgH8NW0MtWUOvKonxPRhDOAYnPhOOIXKMSqWEyGOCY4Uce1-Vy626dSVe7vBAArWil_oNFZtUkdg5-3VpZMgGbc/s200/004.JPG" width="200" /></a>Anyway. Here is what you need to start: One batch of this recipe will make 8 pint jars. NOT. WORTH IT. Double batch is worth it. Triple batch will get you through til Christmas. Unless you eat it all before then. By YOURSELF. But, hey lil' red hen. You put in the work, you get the rewards. *checks watch* Its been 1 minute and 22 seconds, WHERE IS HE!?<br />
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Unless you have your own (and first time out I didn't) canning jars, go out and get some canning jars. And a funnel that will fit into the top of the lids. If you don't have some of this stuff, borrow. I don't have my own jars or funnel. I just keep borrowing Lisa's and waiting for someone to get me one for Christmas. YES. This will feel TOTALLY WEIRD, especially as the checkout kid looks at the jars and looks at you as though he was expecting his GRAMMA. "Just ring it up Skippy!" Just, just ignore him.<br />
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<u><i><b>One Batch = 8 pint jars.</b></i></u> Multiply for however much you need. Which is never enough, but I'm gonna make you do the math in your head anyway - so here we go!<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Shopping List: </b></span><br />
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<b>7 lbs of Roma tomatoes.</b> <u><i><b>WARNING:</b></i></u> IF you get those beef steak tomatoes and try to use them cuz they were on sale, or someone gave 'em to you, you will be SO SORRY. You will not have salsa, you will have flavored WATER. Romas are meatier. THAT'S what you want.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Kd-hhkfjMng8vV_Mjhlds2Vx3MnHtMHGDLrtWi-T9xecfC5Wck4IEy16rZ4Co6wURW8rCb-CFz9Wgoeba7LGUIXhVV8PvDEyAkLkCptTM6fPvueUeldxQAXov_eERshJDg4EUQTHagE/s1600/009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Kd-hhkfjMng8vV_Mjhlds2Vx3MnHtMHGDLrtWi-T9xecfC5Wck4IEy16rZ4Co6wURW8rCb-CFz9Wgoeba7LGUIXhVV8PvDEyAkLkCptTM6fPvueUeldxQAXov_eERshJDg4EUQTHagE/s320/009.JPG" width="320" /></a><b>1 lb Onion</b> - White, yellow, doesn't matter. Unless you feel it will matter to you, then use whatever you like.<br />
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<b>2 lbs Anaheim Peppers</b>. You may very well clear out their entire pepper selection. Feel free to ask Skippy Jr if there is more in the back.<br />
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<b>1/2 C Vinegar</b> - apple cider, or white. All tastes good.<br />
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<b>1/2 C Lime Juice </b>- for freshness!<br />
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<b>2 TBS NON IODIZED SALT.</b> Yes, this is in CAPS so that you'll get the feeling that I'm yelling it at you. I don't know WHY it has to be<i> NON IODIZED</i>, but Lisa says that all salsa recipes insist on it. So. I'm not gonna ruin all this over the wrong salt.<br />
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<b>1 TBS Cumin - </b>some people are haters, but it works MAGIC in this recipe.<br />
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<b>2 tsp (smaller than a TBS!) Garlic powder.</b><br />
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<b>A stock pot. Borrow one if you have to. A clean rag. A soup ladle (for ladling salsa into the jars), a slotted spoon big enough to pick up a roma tomato out of hot boiling water, a good sharp knife or food processor that reliably CHOPS (not liquefies), plastic gloves, or something that you can chop peppers in, and an apron in case you are super messy. Or just want to feel like its part of canning. Or just looks cute on you.</b><br />
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<b> </b><br />
<b>STEP ONE: Dealing with tomatoes.</b><br />
Now let me just say here, that if you get past this step, the rest is cake. Dealing the tomatoes is the biggest pain in the a@@. If you can get through this, you will be SET. Its not hard, it just takes time.<br />
We're gonna take the skins off those tomatoes. *nods* All of them.<br />
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If you are doing a triple batch, then just <b>do this step alone</b> the day before you want to actually put things in jars so you are not uber tired and/or depressed. If you find that you are talking to yourself, <i>you have done too many tomatoes</i>. Two batches can be a marathon, but doable in the same day you want to can them <b>if</b> you have a friend there to talk with you. And for just one batch - what the heck! I told you one batch wasn't worth it!<br />
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</b><br />
<b>Start a big pot to boiling. Get another big bowl and make ice water to put the tomatoes in after you've boiled off some skin. </b><br />
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<b>Take each tomato, and put an "x" on the bottom. </b>Also known as "scoring," the whole point of this is to make it easier for you to take the skin off. Don't hack into the thing, and don't do a tiny dainty "x." Cut through the skin in a longish "x" so that when the hot water makes the skin start to peel back, you can grab it with your paring knife and peel off a whole bunch of the skin without having to hack into the tomato.<b> </b>When you feel like you can't stand to make one more longish "x" the water should be boiling. Take about 12 tomatoes and drop them in the boiling water. Marvel at your canning prowess, and set a timer for about 2 minutes. Go make some more longish "x"s on the non-boiled tomatoes.<br />
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<b>MULTI-TASKING ALERT:</b> There are three stations here.<br />
<ol style="text-align: left;"><li>The tomatoes on the counter. </li>
<li>The tomatoes in the boiling water, and then </li>
<li>the tomatoes in the ice bath. </li>
<li>Oh. And then the scored/skinned/rough chopped tomatoes in the stock pot.</li>
</ol><br />
<ul style="text-align: left;"><li>After the tomatoes skin starts to peel back on that first dozen, take them out of the hot water with your slotted spoon, and dump them in the ice water bath. </li>
<li> Put in another 12 X'd tomatoes to boil, and then grab your paring knife. </li>
<li>Make a few more longish x's on your other tomatoes until the boiled tomatoes cool for a sec or two. </li>
<li>Go back to the water bath and pick up a slightly cooked, (with an x on the bottom,) tomato that should have the skin starting to peel away like old paint. Start taking off the skins. I drop the skins in the sink, and chop 'em in my hand, and repeat. Once all of the skin is off, core the sucker, and either put it on a chopping board to "rough cut it (or cut in 1/2 twice), or just hold it in your hand and cut it in half, and then cut it in half again. <b>Do not cut your hand.</b> Drop it in your stock pot. </li>
<li>Process all of your tomatoes until they are all safely scored/skinned and rough chopped in the stock pot. Sit for a few minutes. Feel good about what you've done!</li>
</ul><br />
<b>STEP TWO: Dealing with Onions and PEPPERS</b><br />
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<b>Chop/dice the onions first</b>. Easy. Toss them on the tomatoes in the stock pot. If you have done a triple batch or more, and don't think that all of your ingredients will fit, then just be smart and put 1/2 the onions in with 1/2 the tomatoes etc. Most stock pots will hold a double batch of this recipe of salsa.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaaADbXROjMj_hNHF4qoekmrFG-YRCUjx1fmOe-_hGXn6wUUhBpSB2migzNYnbc5K1i4Z8AnESJBWZR9nt55XvkZnNxuyIEJ3fk3tNb0514sYAMER8x1TVCRIm_JLCyZnl3NwOtBhUj7U/s1600/003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaaADbXROjMj_hNHF4qoekmrFG-YRCUjx1fmOe-_hGXn6wUUhBpSB2migzNYnbc5K1i4Z8AnESJBWZR9nt55XvkZnNxuyIEJ3fk3tNb0514sYAMER8x1TVCRIm_JLCyZnl3NwOtBhUj7U/s320/003.JPG" width="239" /></a></div><b>Peppers.</b> Put on some gloves, or something to protect your hands. Not all feel that this is necessary.<br />
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A guy I know, for example, decided to chop some hot peppers, and scoffed at the idea of doing it in anything but bare hands. "Commando." I can't remember if he itched AND had to go to the bathroom, or just had to go to the bathroom, but the sound that emanated from behind that bathroom door after a few seconds had dogs barking hysterically around the block for miles. And if you just have an itch, have someone itch for you, or take your gloves off.<br />
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Cut off the heads of each pepper. About an inch down. Huck the end in the garbage. With remaining long pepper, cut it in half. FISH OUT THE SEEDS. Yes, I'm yelling at you, <a href="http://catchthewindow.blogspot.com/2008/04/choking-on-charity.html">because I didn't remove them once.</a> SEEDS ARE HOT!!! Take the peppers and just dice 'em up. Toss 'em in the pot.<br />
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Turn on the stove to a simmer. You can start at a 7/9 heat. You're just boiling it all down. The more you boil, the more concentrated it becomes. Add all of the other ingredients: Salt, cumin, lime juice, vinegar, and garlic powder. Stir. Stir. Stir, and admire. Stir.<br />
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Start cookin' an stirring. The heat blends all of this numminess, and breaks down the tomatoes from big hunks to small hunks, but you can't let it just boil - that will burn the bottom of your pot. Stir, and keep an eye on it. After awhile, you will see the color deepen, and there will be smaller and smaller chunks of tomato. I LOVE the big bits of tomato. LOVE LOVE LOVE. Lisa's kids, not so much. So, cook it down, simmering with the lid OFF, until it looks about like this.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzzo4j9MTyie3km8Jr6oF4teEkTrIP5Wt1e3FVAI8QwN7j_EEIhpN4Sq9p48lWLHGRKcDCW8_smhlEF8WJXNu3hBQ4flTQ_iFwyA1UTu2XttZfRUX6x7hwxsDDZOR-dS1wFKWHVqyrOH8/s1600/005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzzo4j9MTyie3km8Jr6oF4teEkTrIP5Wt1e3FVAI8QwN7j_EEIhpN4Sq9p48lWLHGRKcDCW8_smhlEF8WJXNu3hBQ4flTQ_iFwyA1UTu2XttZfRUX6x7hwxsDDZOR-dS1wFKWHVqyrOH8/s320/005.JPG" width="239" /></a><br />
<b>NOW YOU ARE READY TO CAN!</b><br />
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Open up that box of cans. Nervously take the plastic wrap off. Start taking off the lids and rings. SAVE THEM! You want to soften the rubber on the lids, so put just them in warm simmering water. BE EVER SO CAREFUL. The lids like to mate. And suddenly, you have 2 jars left and no lids. Yep. Somewhere in there you put on a couple of double lids. They are sneakier than teenagers!<br />
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Line up 3 glass jars. Ladle each one full to the top of the big rim, but not to the top of the neck. Don't stick it in the neck, you need a little space for it to seal. Wipe off the top of each jar with a WET rag. Fish a lid out (check to make sure its a single), and put it on. Screw down with the ring.<br />
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<b>SEALING:</b> You can do this one of two ways. The hard way, or the easy way.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaESZSBloXFIZXfy0snbgpH0OpCPgcuw_9qHZIZldKFO2p5ofgZy8WPxxZ4iD7MYc4CQzODJDTOV4Ah9T1hm3JuxfjK3o0PfqbM-FOVKeAcirfCJzS5QJBgYFamKIp3ixSCIjroQtvIJ0/s1600/006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaESZSBloXFIZXfy0snbgpH0OpCPgcuw_9qHZIZldKFO2p5ofgZy8WPxxZ4iD7MYc4CQzODJDTOV4Ah9T1hm3JuxfjK3o0PfqbM-FOVKeAcirfCJzS5QJBgYFamKIp3ixSCIjroQtvIJ0/s320/006.JPG" width="320" /></a><b>Hard:</b> You can stick each jar into a bath of boiling hot water about an inch above the lid and wait for it to suck in and pop. Or<br />
<b>Easy:</b> Turn it upside down and let the heat from the boiling salsa seal itself somewhere in the night.<br />
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How can I tell if its sealed or not? Well, if you can bounce your finger up and down, like a finger on a lid trampoline on the middle of the lid the next morning, it did not seal. Eat it. If it doesn't, then its sealed. You can hide that baby in your secret secret spot, cuz baby, you just made salsa! I have just eaten my way through half a jar. And I'm gonna go lie down and have some salsa dreams. Soooo gooooooood. :D<br />
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</div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-38141531636548546212011-09-30T21:17:00.000-07:002011-10-06T14:21:50.228-07:00Ancestor Cards - How I Did It<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://a1.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/s320x320/320588_2420942119865_1140806814_32932436_698718996_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://a1.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/s320x320/320588_2420942119865_1140806814_32932436_698718996_n.jpg" /></a></div><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">“If you can see your path laid out in front of you step by step, you know it's not your path. Your own path you make with every step you take. That's why it's your path.” <br />
~ Joseph Campbell</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}"> I saw this, and laughed how I thought it applied to my ancestor cards. "How did you do it? What gave you the idea?" Well. The fuzzy lint in my brain just wanted to. I wanted to have the equivalent to ancestor baseball cards: something with all of their "stats" so I would be able to put a face to a name, and know a little bit about each of my ancestors. The stories I'd grown up with kinda blended, and as I found out later, were sometimes connected with the wrong person. And I wanted my kids to know their histories as well. Without even one of them, there would be no us. My own children carry half of my husbands genes, and I couldn't tell them hardly anything about my husbands ancestors. But I didn't always have a clear cut idea of how to fix that. How the cards started out, and how they ended up are quite the process, but I'll try and outline it here just in case you want to make some of your own. </span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://cdn.familytreetemplates.net/samples/4generation_ancestor_chart_braces_vitals.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="http://cdn.familytreetemplates.net/samples/4generation_ancestor_chart_braces_vitals.png" width="320" /></a><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">I got to see these at the equivalent of a "Tupperware Party" my Cousin Faye put on, and it got me thinking about how great it would be to make trading cards, or baseball cards for our ancestors; something with all their "stats" in a nice compact place. I'd never seen it done before, but *pshhht* how hard could it be? Right? I'm a 4th 5th or 6 th generation Mormon, it should be easy to pull up all this stuff.</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}"> The only known publisher that *I* know of for a (nice!) deck of cards is <a href="https://studio.heritagemakers.com/"><i>"Heritage Makers."</i></a> If you start an account, and then go under "Photo gifts", you can find the printable deck of cards. </span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">For $24.99 + s/h, you can get 52 cards and the option to add as many cards as you want for $0.50 each. They offer a monthly charge for their "Premiere" package, but I had SO MUCH to put on each card, I didn't need any special do-dads or papers. You can see that there is less than a 1/4" of the basic color around each card. The rest is all my photos, downloaded icons, and my own info. The program insists that everything be in .jpg format, so, word to the wise.</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJUpnnTpuUMGm7Ag3U9PpNOCQk0pJMfsYCCdLOq11p_i0EThrGNWp5nNUs2DeZ4zNlBt5Ezzn6BkM97wiOC5erfLgC876YQ-QbE3XbmbWo8Nzd85atIBRvvjtndYLkSPCPc3rVkOUUdtk/s1600/Fanned+cards.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJUpnnTpuUMGm7Ag3U9PpNOCQk0pJMfsYCCdLOq11p_i0EThrGNWp5nNUs2DeZ4zNlBt5Ezzn6BkM97wiOC5erfLgC876YQ-QbE3XbmbWo8Nzd85atIBRvvjtndYLkSPCPc3rVkOUUdtk/s320/Fanned+cards.jpg" width="320" /></a><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}"> I ordered two decks "at a special price" ($20 each if you order RIGHT NOW!), one for his family, and one for mine. <i>Now - if you think about it - if you are doing 4 generations for you and your spouse, there is exactly ONE family that will want a full deck. Your very own family. My parents and their family are not terribly interested in half of the deck of cards, and the same goes for my hubby's family. But if you buy two decks, you can split a full deck, and send half of one to his family, and the other half to your family. Two full decks take care of 3 families. :D</i></span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">The first thing I had to decide was how to split up the 52 cards. That ends in a weird number of generations, so we did the math and realized that if we each did four generations back (starting with our parents), we would need 30 cards each. That means we would just have to add 8 cards ($4 - not bad). I printed off a pedigree chart and then made some digital folders on my computer and started to <span style="font-size: small;"><u><i><b>organize</b></i></u></span>. </span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">STEP ONE: Just like the pedigree chart above, it is the best way to organize your files. I am number 1. My Dad is #2, my mom is #3 and so on. You should have 30 files for you and your four generations, and also 30 for your spouse. Keeping the numerical order as well as the names of each ancestor in number order will SERIOUSLY help you to keep things straight as the project goes along. </span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">STEP TWO: If you have computer files, you can start making relevant copies of pictures and documents into each ancestor file. If there's a wedding photo with grandparents and great- grandparents, copy that pic 4 times. Drop one in each file. When you run out of information on your computer, contact the genealogy nut in the family, or people you know who have the biggest amount of pictures and information. Tell them what you want, and hold on. Its about to get fun.</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">STEP THREE: Back to the cards: I opened up the program, added 8 cards and picked out a basic (free) color for each of four lines, and began to copy/paste. My dad's ancestor line has a red background, my mom is yellow. Matthew's dad has a blue background, and his mom's is green. Should the cards ever get shuffled, you at least have a snowball's chance in hell of putting all 60 cards back in order. I toyed with the idea of giving each couple a unique color to help keep the couples straight, but ran up against a deadline, and... a fear that they would start looking junky. I also toyed with the idea of doing my own extended family. All of my siblings would be orange (red + yellow = orange, get it!?), and all of Matthew's would be a blue/green teal kinda color, but... that hasn't happened yet. Project #2 perhaps. For this project, we just went BACK in time.</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYwoviOliMFkayhoeBzulTGb6Qdx4YKHNFKRvioOTyMMo_Lcfo9frkJmQyKdLhRC0f63VCZcG6aezoebZujOjK2kW4lt_EkRe8gkI-7H8bIQ4hj7OKzxhdNOcghHiYGBcTLo8qEpY1cBE/s1600/008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYwoviOliMFkayhoeBzulTGb6Qdx4YKHNFKRvioOTyMMo_Lcfo9frkJmQyKdLhRC0f63VCZcG6aezoebZujOjK2kW4lt_EkRe8gkI-7H8bIQ4hj7OKzxhdNOcghHiYGBcTLo8qEpY1cBE/s320/008.JPG" width="239" /></a><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">STEP FOUR: Grab your pedigree charts. After the color background was copied, I put two plain boxes on each card; one on the top and bottom of each card. Consistency is nice, so it was super easy to pick a nameplate size, and then do copy/paste for the 60 cards. That'll take you a little bit. For the box on the top of the card, I picked a nice legible font (this is not the time for frou frou fonts - the cards are small, and you need to be able to read them!). For ease and history's sake I put their name AND nickname. For women, we left their maiden name for spacing sake, "Marion Naomi Crofts Worthen," went just a tad over my space limit (and I had to keep reducing the font to make it fit), so we just left the maiden name. If the person went by a nick-name, we put that below their "official" name. "Daddy Bish" or "Cuddles." </span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">My own mother, whose offical name is "Margaret," has gone by "Midge" her whole entire life, and I always referred to her mother as, "Grandma Grace." We also put a baby buggy icon to indicate how many children each woman had, and a + (name) if they helped to raise someone. I had quite a few relatives that became primary care-givers to grandchildren or nieces/nephews. Also, an angel Moroni icon to indicate the first ancestor to join the Mormon church, and a wagon icon to indicate a pioneer that crossed the plains. I made an icon for Polygamous families, but didn't have anyone to use it on. :/ Oh well.</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}"> On the bottom box we included the following information:</span><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}"> </span></h6><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}"><u>Birth date and place</u>. I also put the<u> flag of their birth place </u>up in the top right hand corner under their name so you could easily see the different countries that their ancestors came from. For ancestors with no photo, and no information, we used this information to put up a map to show where they came from. ----> Matthew moved his to the left top, but since it was getting done, I wasn't going to complain.</span></h6></li>
</ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}"><u>Mission</u> - if they served one - including name of the mission, the years that they served, and if it is a vague area, like "The Southern States Mission" I try to include the areas where they served primarily. (KY) for Kentucky. </span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}"><u>Marriage date and place</u>, AND ( in parenthesis) a few bits of information. After "Marriage" I put the total times the person was married in their lifetime. This... can be surprising. Also, I put how old my relative was when they got married to my other ancestor. On another line, to help keep everyone straight, I put their spouses name and how old THEY were when they got married. "Hey dad! Did you know that your mom was only 19 when she got married, and your dad was only 20?" He didn't. You find some interesting pairings, like this one ---; who knew there were cougars in Mississippi!</span></h6></li>
</ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}"><b><u>Emigration information.</u></b> I wanted to put where they came to the USA, when, and the name of the ship, where possible. If they did emigrate, we also put an icon of a ship up on their name plate. </span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">Death date, and place.</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">STEP FIVE: <u><b>Photos</b></u> - We wanted our primary photo to be a picture of each ancestor taken in about their twenties. Its easier to trace family resemblances, and see certain defining characteristics on a young adult face. Where possible, we also tried to post a baby picture, and a picture of them as they aged. Very few have all three, but it was fun to search.</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">We also took pictures of any heirlooms associated with that person. These are SO much easier to have now that photo-phones are available. For example, on the card for Marion Swan below, there is a picture of an heirloom ring that is passed down to the youngest daughter of the youngest daughter. I had my mother snap a picture of the ring with her cell phone and send it so it could be included with the card.</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">If known, I also added:</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTp8-LtNJFplcQVTAAVPKBpczvq7z93g3rZWQMxqYtsoYDhCWVvyGS7meSfx6MAc9YtW1ifPi7b2tZ00mJM1FrMwyBmqJeF64IXqlF6sZ-UE1f9LJLGJ-dZoK-sikqOwbSbCGd95618_g/s1600/Arthur+John+Crane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTp8-LtNJFplcQVTAAVPKBpczvq7z93g3rZWQMxqYtsoYDhCWVvyGS7meSfx6MAc9YtW1ifPi7b2tZ00mJM1FrMwyBmqJeF64IXqlF6sZ-UE1f9LJLGJ-dZoK-sikqOwbSbCGd95618_g/s320/Arthur+John+Crane.jpg" width="239" /></a><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">What musical instrument they played</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">Something to indicate their profession, </span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">Whether they were a Boy Scout, and what rank they attained,</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">Military service, if any. Hobbies when there was space (gardening, photography, baking specialties, and trashy magazines like "True Story" they loved to read *nods*. Oh yes!)</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">Anything connected to a defining story involving them or other items of peculiar interest.</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">If a photo wasn't available, then a picture of their headstone, and map associated with that person.</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">Photos of things that they made, like quilts, or loved to use - like my great grandmother's favorite tea cup. On one, I have my great-grandmother's wedding invitation, and her calling card from her missionary days. My grandpa has his business sign.</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">And, to me, the "piece de resistance" were the <u><i><b>signatures.</b></i></u> Matthew and I searched through marriage certificates, old letters, death certificates, books, and just about everywhere you can think of to get as many signatures as we could. Of all things, it is the only thing that is truly representative of your ancestor. I think only a thumbprint could be more personal.</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHZFs-9MKF7M1Yey6IQWbCVYCmBRaKjvJOUlg6T8bqnWtYzVe_f_04vX4ju4wqFUf4yCFu9VZYI3HnFzkTqaLleV36DgR1sGL1f3cTU6fEd5tAsMJuKxEaSjL4KNXQ8vsJ3iwBNeXSBdE/s1600/marion+swan+card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHZFs-9MKF7M1Yey6IQWbCVYCmBRaKjvJOUlg6T8bqnWtYzVe_f_04vX4ju4wqFUf4yCFu9VZYI3HnFzkTqaLleV36DgR1sGL1f3cTU6fEd5tAsMJuKxEaSjL4KNXQ8vsJ3iwBNeXSBdE/s320/marion+swan+card.jpg" width="239" /></a><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">We found that there were many, many sources of information about our ancestors. We started off with pictures and other information that had already been collected by our parents. From there, we started looking on the Internet and found websites and blogs where unknown cousins were sharing pictures, documents and other treasures we didn't know existed. For our Utah ancestors, we hit the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers who preserve life histories and rare photos. We also used free trial memberships to sites such as Ancestry.com to explore records such as census, war records, pictures and many other resources we didn't know existed. For example, we knew that one ancestor has traveled frequently out of the country. Ancestry had copies of passport applications from nearly a hundred years ago that contained family portraits and pictures that we never dreamed of finding. We also found that the BYU library has a special collection of photographs, diaries and histories (the L. Tom Perry Special Collection) and we were surprised to find several of our ancestors in their collection. There many other free online resources such as the Utah digital newspapers archive, death certificate index (great for finding signatures), and FamilySearch.org with information and historical documents that can be had for free. Finally, when we had noting else, we researched cemetery records and snapped a photo of the grave stone to that no ancestor's card was completely empty. </span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}"><br />
It has been a labor of love. I have been shocked, and amazed at what I have discovered throughout this process. I am grateful beyond words for what we HAVE been able to find. I gave up on many an ancestor as a "hopeless cause" for ever finding a photograph or a signature, and have been delighted BEYOND WORDS, to have found it in a passport photo, or a signature in a book, or a letter that someone had in a bottom drawer somewhere. Matthew will tell you too, that the things we were able to find are far greater than we had even hoped for after our initial start with this project. Just keep digging, just keep digging... </span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">Now that its done, I have put the cards in a baseball card keeper, and I just sit and flip through them. Nearly in tears for the amount of work it took, and how WONDERFUL it is now to know so much about each one. As a little prompt, I put a little quote on each of my cards, either about the person, or something that they said - so that you could immediately know something about each one. So that they could be real and wonderful. Perhaps you don't think you can relate to that old guy in a stiff colar, but wait til you find out that he had a star tattoo on each hand the size of a silver dollar, a danish flag tattoo on his forearm, and an entire ship across his chest that he could flex to make the flag "wave". Yes. I think you will love him!</span></h6><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj7sRnVn-r4TEK2RnVrG7pGBk2K0ycE3ClouELU8MtIqHq3O_ETjMZxDlqKK3sf7VoI7_dfjNHsH4878MWkOCdg8bTFAyXbKAkNCMf6DYsxkRLu1eRBCogsDZQIFAC_pthZ60JeDECyRg/s1600/Ancestor+cards+in+baseball+holders.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj7sRnVn-r4TEK2RnVrG7pGBk2K0ycE3ClouELU8MtIqHq3O_ETjMZxDlqKK3sf7VoI7_dfjNHsH4878MWkOCdg8bTFAyXbKAkNCMf6DYsxkRLu1eRBCogsDZQIFAC_pthZ60JeDECyRg/s320/Ancestor+cards+in+baseball+holders.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}"> Grandma Grace's sister wrote, "Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead; we also are capable of bringing people back to life, merely by writing about them." Though these cards have been printed, the work is not yet done. We are still receiving documents, signatures, and life histories from the descendants of these people. There is more to be had, and once you start scratching the surface, you just want to dig more and more and more. That talent for quilting that you thought was your own ambition, can actually be traced back to your great great grandmother. That wit, and humor that you thought was the only one in the family crops up with your bald great-grandpa wearing a black wig in a convertible to scare his wife and give her a laugh in his bright colored tie. Its odd to describe how you find yourself as you go looking in your past. They are part of you, and you are part of them. Its a beautiful thing - and totally worth working for.</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}">So, good luck on your own journey. I wish you the best as you forge your own trail and discovery! Just remember - this is a great project for the young. Even though you have kids all around your ankles, and it seems like its crazy, you are in the best position to remember, to ask, and to record. It took me until the last, ultimate deadline, 2 years after I started, but I did it. Just a box, color, and photo at a time. Once you see what you have, you will know what you're looking for. Happy Hunting!</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}"><br />
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</ul><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}"> </span></h6></div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com56tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-15695398003540281172011-09-07T11:12:00.000-07:002011-09-07T21:53:52.440-07:00Hubris<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9YzJDPWNqQBP56M4GiNZ_WZgmkhddJFOZEjYWaMTceGF8wpikOQzKz8QB5qJqcTRNaeTkWzJnsq6REI89uviC1EuM_0ZebuPuhVexTq3HGchZWStAbOIuEorEpjP6ELo04VD9wLHiLVk/s1600/950409+Sao+Roque%252C+Madeira+-+Easter+with+Elder+Barbour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9YzJDPWNqQBP56M4GiNZ_WZgmkhddJFOZEjYWaMTceGF8wpikOQzKz8QB5qJqcTRNaeTkWzJnsq6REI89uviC1EuM_0ZebuPuhVexTq3HGchZWStAbOIuEorEpjP6ELo04VD9wLHiLVk/s320/950409+Sao+Roque%252C+Madeira+-+Easter+with+Elder+Barbour.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Only tuff girls can serve a mission to Portugal!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSo7QI9-BPFGLoWAcEkvBRpcRGhko2AYxaDxYKsbdBCrMyH_nE2cvA17ChccStSyX66_uToli0gwOD_-qYYP5VjoY-BB34_Tnez1rM4dBBewhof98YESMxntJTL97uqHV69Kd53Wdekkk/s1600/900500+Katrina+Senior+Portrait.02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSo7QI9-BPFGLoWAcEkvBRpcRGhko2AYxaDxYKsbdBCrMyH_nE2cvA17ChccStSyX66_uToli0gwOD_-qYYP5VjoY-BB34_Tnez1rM4dBBewhof98YESMxntJTL97uqHV69Kd53Wdekkk/s320/900500+Katrina+Senior+Portrait.02.jpg" width="251" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm so smart I graduated High School!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSC_Y-lRZiKRsFXkd8LXv2td8MWTZpTq1HFoR35L-5GmaJ6pyT52XakBQQ08Al-xsm4q5nA9TdYxYfib71CDz9542pbZOOcSw2TiKHte7V7lx4lvdx3STcHJLhqGS1Ji6ayJjQbR6W9Ps/s1600/Test+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSC_Y-lRZiKRsFXkd8LXv2td8MWTZpTq1HFoR35L-5GmaJ6pyT52XakBQQ08Al-xsm4q5nA9TdYxYfib71CDz9542pbZOOcSw2TiKHte7V7lx4lvdx3STcHJLhqGS1Ji6ayJjQbR6W9Ps/s320/Test+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smart girls know the importance of marrying a smart guy...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiH2VU5AzsyAzlkHbiedJgSjgIcHCzl7BtPdN7EaAdqRKywC14b6t_inG6pt9kq-_tejttyKxoSzKeCoNfXDIb3wdSyVzc9rn8jKVTCB4TtptWE62YNjAP8dldrqSkLK_HU2VibEhpLyI/s200/980424+Katrina+Graduation.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="142" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">BA = Believe it! I'm Awesome!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiH2VU5AzsyAzlkHbiedJgSjgIcHCzl7BtPdN7EaAdqRKywC14b6t_inG6pt9kq-_tejttyKxoSzKeCoNfXDIb3wdSyVzc9rn8jKVTCB4TtptWE62YNjAP8dldrqSkLK_HU2VibEhpLyI/s1600/980424+Katrina+Graduation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>People from my childhood are asking. High School friends are asking. People from my mission are asking. People from college, and friends from my married days are asking, "What happened to you? Did you fall off the face of the earth?"<br />
<br />
No, no. I'm here- if only just barely. Impossible? You would think, after all that I have accomplished in this ole life that I would be on TOP of it all. I mean, if you can do college-level calculus, motherhood should be a snap, right? They're smaller than you, not as smart as you, and when properly motivated, they do as they are told. Easy peasy rice and cheesy! Yet here I sit, with the tv babysitter on, and I feel like a captive trying to relay out a message, "Do you copy? Do you copy? This is Bravo leader, Bravo leader, Delta, do you copy?! 7 Sept. 2011... this situation is NOT FRIENDLY, I repeat, there are NOT FRIENDLIES! Have been taken captive, conditions are worsening, not known when I can communicate again... send aid. Chocolate and caffeine. Will arrange a drop spot..."<br />
<br />
The dishwasher is on, the laundry is rolling through, and I have just called and left a message to Matthew about the $2.99 broom that ain't cuttin' it. The clock is ticking, and I have less time than a Jeopardy! player to write this out. I understand that this doesn't make sense to some people, - and I'm thinking of an old boss in particular who said to me, "My friend stays at home, and she complains about how hard it is. I go to work, and do everything that she does; laundry, dinner, tidying. I mean, what does she do with her time?" At the time I was expecting my own first baby, and didn't have an answer. "I dunno. I work too. How hard can it be? Its like, we work twice as hard as them." <--- remember that phrase, because it counts towards hubris.<br />
<br />
But to those with little children, it makes allll sorts of sense. Unless you have a maid, unless you are independently wealthy, Motherhood can be the most sacrificing, time consuming, thankless job on a 24/7 basis that you can ever attempt. Now as a stay-at-home mom, I understand better my fellows in arms. You stay home, to provide the best environment for your children. Your home. Your paradise; your prison. The proverbial Hotel California. You are free to check out, but you can never leave.<br />
<br />
This is the second week of potty training captivity in my home. I am not sure of a release date at this point, but attempting to go out of the compound is decidedly perilous at best. My trainee is wandering around in naught but a t-shirt so that he can remember that no underwear, no diaper, no nuthin' is gonna catch what falls out of his body. He is interrogated every 10 minutes with, "Do you need to go potty?! You need to stay dry. Don't pee on yourself!"<br />
<br />
The two toughest are now in school, so I can sneak my way over to the computer and eek out a message: I have the answer! I know why SAHMs are crazy-busy and stressed! They LIVE. AT. HOME! There is no night cleaning crew, there is no landscaping crew! And one-income families, of a necessity, must regularly eat everything at home! And then clean it up! For those who work, and my Boss had one kid, I can say, "Your ONE child doesn't live at your house! Eat at your house! Mess up your house! - except under direct supervisory control for the few hours that you are there! They spent their day messing up someone else's place! And the workers get paid to clean it up for you! They gave up carpet years ago! Its linoleum and indoor/outdoor where she lives all day!"<br />
<br />
Where we are now - at this point in my life right now, we all live here. All the time. THAT is the difference Boss. No one messes up <i><b>your</b></i> house, dips their hands into the hot cocoa and then wants to lick it off over the couch, and tramples the Cheerios that hit the floor this morning into a far flung mess. And if all I had to do was load a few breakfast dishes, toss in a load of laundry, and leave my tidy home til I came back to the crock pot I made last night, it would seem that there wasn't much to do. But now. Now I know better. <br />
<br />
I do not fear death, most SAHMs sometimes fantasize about leaving their spouse to "stay home all day", but if vacuums have souls, my Judgement Day will be an awful one, and I fear that part greatly. As they tick off the obscene number of vacuums that have met a horrible, terrible, and awful demises under my roof, at that film everyone says you see of your life. I imagine about 19 vacuums lined up watching and waiting for a just God to dispense justice on me and my family. They can testify of the tortuous treatments that were never designed to be inflicted on an innocent vacuum... well, according to the users manual. I don't want to be there for that. Or when the help from local play-land restaurants come to the stand... <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.stylebakerymom.com/images/97800619569592.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.stylebakerymom.com/images/97800619569592.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo taken circa 2004</td></tr>
</tbody></table>For Example: While my children were sliding down the Del Taco play-land slide, on serving trays, (I don't make this up, I just report it as it was...) and I was simultaneously motioning them to GET OFF or I'm TAKING YOU HOME! and carefully monitoring the potty trainee, my 16 month old lunged unexpectedly for my sisters Large sized, hermongo bongo, caffeinated soda. I yanked away his hand milliseconds too late as the drink tumbled backwards, slow motion like - but too fast to grab it with a child on your lap -, onto the bench and then cracked open at the <b>precise</b> moment that would insure that it would splatter drink in every direction, both horizontal and vertical. I let out that gutteral, "sounds like a possessed person" slow motion, <b>"OH NOOoooooOOOOOooooOOO!"</b> as I was swiping for it. But OH yes. Drink all over. Not a "tidy it up with a napkin" mess, but a full fledged, "Alert the manager, we have a situation," mess. While the lowest man on the Del Taco Totem pole was bringing out the mop bucket, I peppered him with, "I'm SO sorry. Let me get that, for you.. I'll just.. sorry, I'll just stop slipping in it and just move over... there..." In front of all the Del Taco patrons, as I'm hustling shoes, and purses and our tray over to another table, I took a whiff of my toddler. And I realized that I had missed it. And it wasn't pee either. I had to hand over the babe, diffuse a tattle tale situation, "Tell them if they do that again they are going to have to go SIT IN THE CAR!", and trot the toddler into the bathroom, because mommy was just a little too distracted. And I started that self talk muttering, "Can't believe ... do this all day... I HAVE A DEGREE! Makin messes at the DEL TACO! You don't POOP on yourself SOooOOOoN!"<br />
<br />
Not only had I been too distracted to remind the toddler to go to the bathroom, but also to bring the wipes in case he messed himself. That's another kind of hubris. "Oh, we went and picked up the kids today - I'm sure he'll be fine!" And so, in my pride, the safety net was removed, and it all. came. tumbling. down. "Don't put that bucket away yet!" One of the benign ladies in the booth next to me said, "I thought you should know, that red-headed little girl just took a bunch of hot sauce packets up into the play-land..."<br />
<br />
I answered, "Oh thank you... I'll... um, (holding Mr. Poo Poo Platter) I'll go take care of that right now. I... I'm just dealing with four kids under 10, you know...I, uh. Um. Not doing it so well," to which she said, "Oh yes, I understand. I had four too. And when the oldest one left, I realized that I could handle three kids quite well!" I thought about her words as I took the toddler into the bathroom, and started washing his bum. In the tiny sink. Swishing water in a reversal of gravity motion, with my hand and paper towels, trying not to get it on myself. And in that near-to-tears situation, I thought, "Maybe this is just all too advanced for me." There began to be a faint memory of something that I had studied in college about hubris which I'll define for you here:<br />
<br />
<b>Hubris</b> (<span style="white-space: nowrap;"><span title="pronunciation:"><img alt="play" height="11" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/8a/Loudspeaker.svg/11px-Loudspeaker.svg.png" width="11" /></span> <span class="IPA" title="Representation in the International Phonetic Alphabet (IPA)"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:IPA_for_English" title="Wikipedia:IPA for English">/</a></span><span class="IPA"><span style="border-bottom: 1px dotted;" title="primary stress">ˈ</span></span><span class="IPA"><span style="border-bottom: 1px dotted;" title="'h' in 'high'">h</span></span><span class="IPA"><span style="border-bottom: 1px dotted;" title="long 'u' in 'cute'">juː</span></span><span class="IPA"><span style="border-bottom: 1px dotted;" title="'b' in 'buy'">b</span></span><span class="IPA"><span style="border-bottom: 1px dotted;" title="'r' in 'rye'">r</span></span><span class="IPA"><span style="border-bottom: 1px dotted;" title="short 'i' in 'bid'">ɪ</span></span><span class="IPA"><span style="border-bottom: 1px dotted;" title="'s' in 'sigh'">s</span></span><span class="IPA" title="Representation in the International Phonetic Alphabet (IPA)"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:IPA_for_English" title="Wikipedia:IPA for English">/</a></span></span>), also <b>hybris</b>, means extreme haughtiness, pride or arrogance. Hubris often indicates a loss of contact with reality and an overestimation of one's own competence or capabilities, especially when the person exhibiting it is in a position of power. <br />
<br />
Yep. There's the problem. I didn't see it before. But then, those with hubris never do... until it is too late. I thought I could handle it, nay, even wildly succeed at it! Be the cool mom who bought everyone their own barbasol can, played on the table and then dropped them in the tub. Not this. This was WACK! And the result of hubris? Well, here is what the Greeks said would happen to that overconfident hot mess: "resulting in the protagonist's fall."<br />
<br />
So, I am here, and at the tail end of a bad bout of hubris. I have taken so many hits of caffeine and chocolate to get through the day, I barely recognize myself. There are days. There are DAYS where I can't tell you what I did that morning. Or the date. I only know generalities and deadlines. I am told, "Let go, and let God," but they don't say that when company shows up unexpected, and you're trying to downplay the hole in the wall. There is just one place to go. Depths of humility. I don't think Abigail will hit college for another 8 years or so, and then I might be back in the land of the living. Might. Depends on how bad this case of hubris lasts, and if I will be banned from ever entering into every local restaurant when that day comes.... </div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-52874178920382355942011-07-29T08:31:00.000-07:002011-07-30T15:29:40.983-07:00Crusty Bear<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFbgSDOHm4rBAJch4dOEeXihOVnsK-hU9Iifd2cr7yKFAQgbsgxtsmj3YuRU1bdOQtzDA0tp8Dx_b2WpYSLpLUpC__Tzz6mmUI0VDFY3UZv-ucLG_WBCNH0-1BMAgr7Efk7D3GsZxt8YI/s1600/Teddy_Bear-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFbgSDOHm4rBAJch4dOEeXihOVnsK-hU9Iifd2cr7yKFAQgbsgxtsmj3YuRU1bdOQtzDA0tp8Dx_b2WpYSLpLUpC__Tzz6mmUI0VDFY3UZv-ucLG_WBCNH0-1BMAgr7Efk7D3GsZxt8YI/s1600/Teddy_Bear-1.jpg" /></a></div>Kids say the darndest things, and sometimes its hard to follow their thought process. When my baby sister was small, she came up to my mom one day, "Mom?"<br />
"Yeah - hon, what...?" Mom said while probably making a bed, or tossing laundry in the washer.<br />
"What is a Crusty Bear?"<br />
"A crusty bear? Wha - huh? I don't know what you're talking about." <br />
"When we were at church, someone was talking about their crusty bear, and I just wanted to know what it was."<br />
<br />
You love to be the Font of All Knowledge for your kids, but sometimes they come at you sideways and you need a little context...<br />
<br />
"Uh, um, what did they say about it?"<br />
"They said, 'Its my Crusty Bear.'" and then they said how it was hard.<br />
<br />
Thank heavens for inspiration. "OHHHHH! You mean 'Cross To Bear,' Is that what they said?" I think my sister was totally thrown by the new syntax. She wasn't expecting some idiom, she wanted to know about this bear, which is apparently crusty, and how to care for such things. And if it is a really<u><i><b> cool</b></i></u> bear, where do you get one?<br />
<br />
The phrase comes from scripture, and it was such a significant event that everyone mentioned it. Matthew, Mark, Luke AND John. We'll borrow from Luke, the physician, since Drs tend to be anal in content and to the point: <i><a href="http://lds.org/scriptures/nt/luke/23.26?lang=eng#25">Luke 23:26</a> And as they led him away, they laid hold upon one Simon, a Cyrenian, coming out of the country, and on him they laid the <span class="highlight">cross</span>, that he might <span class="highlight">bear</span> it after Jesus.</i><br />
<br />
So this poor guy is visiting Jerusalem for a little Passover Vaycay, checking out his "<u><i><b>Jerusalem On 20 Mites a Day</b></i></u>" guide, and suddenly a big hulking Roman soldier says, "Hey YOU! You with the GUIDE! GETOVAH HERE!" And the next thing he knows, he's haulin' a couple of rail road ties down the middle of a ridiculously crowded Main Street, through a screaming, spitting, hoard - next to a guy that looks like he has had a truly rough night. And that is how you get a Crusty Bear. You had other plans, and you were happily going about your business when, BAM! Suddenly things are a lot harder.<br />
<br />
Crusty Bears come in all shapes and sizes, but I think everyone acquires the initial matched set of Fuzzy Fear, Deeply Disappointed Bear, Health Carebear, and Outta the Blue Bear. (Yes that sounds lame, but I'm typing this with a kid on my lap - there isn't a lot of time for editing, ok!)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://frysingerreunion.org/1/us/newyork26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://frysingerreunion.org/1/us/newyork26.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>As I was thinking over my dear acquaintances, and their crusty bears, I find it intriguing that our sorrows, challenges and disappointments are like a teddy bear. We ALL have them; some new, others well worn, but the crusty bears tend to remain hidden to all but our closest friends and family. Many people we know hardly get a glimpse of them. The Big Crusty Bears, like the FAO Schwarts size ones, are easy to see; bald young mom, child drooling in a wheelchair, people who are missing body parts etc. But in my experience, most people keep their collection of crusty bears to themselves. One of my friends was hiding the fact that she had cancer, from her parents. "I don't want them to worry..."<br />
<br />
Parents DO worry. Its in our nature. As I was sitting at a stop light, and thinking about what a therapist had told me about my son, and how he gets "flooded" with emotions that leads to lashing out, and will possibly need counseling, I didn't notice the light turn green. The jeep behind me honked, and I snapped to, and started driving. The car switched lanes, and as I looked out my window to give a visual apology to the driver, the girl in the back seat looked at me, and stuck out her tongue. My apologetic look evaporated. <br />
<br />
I would like to say that I had compassion, and thought to myself, "Oh, she's probably having a hard day too..." but I had THE strongest urge, to get behind this car and honk LOUDLY at every stop light that turned green, until one of us had to turn. "That'll learn you some compassion, you little snot-nosed brat!" It was more a decision process of trying to figure out if it was worth scaring the pants off that little so-and-so twit while also annoying the poor drivers around me that didn't get her salute. "She's young, " I thought. "You may think I am the worst person on the road, but honey, I KNOW what my crusty bears are. Yours are still waiting for you..." Then I went back to trying to figure out where my son gets these lashing out tendencies. Probably from his fathers side. I dunno, we don't always have a clear view of ourselves "in the round." Maybe it is experience, and getting a good look at others crusty bear collections, that helps us to have a bit more tolerance. And makes us better detectives for the crusty bears of others that are barely perceptible.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://d30opm7hsgivgh.cloudfront.net/upload/29161927_erKYgxSN_c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://d30opm7hsgivgh.cloudfront.net/upload/29161927_erKYgxSN_c.jpg" width="252" /></a></div>That same little sister of mine has a new bear this summer. Unrequited Love crusty bear. She doesn't want anyone to know about her new bear, and I don't know that she has seen mine. But as we sat around the table at a small family gathering, the compassionate detectives wanted to know, "Is there a new crusty bear?" Yes. There is. We now refer to her Ex as "Porta-Scotty."<br />
<br />
I didn't have to pull out too much of my own bear collection, and I'm grateful for that. Sometimes, the only purpose of knowing about a collection is the comfort that you don't have some of the bears that others have. But in another way, I also know that people - in general - would also be kinder if we knew all the crusty bears each of us is having to deal with.<br />
<br />
No one is exempt from this. I think of someone like Saint Joseph raising his kid. You'd think it would be easy. Unless, as I imagine it, Joseph had seen things going a different way, "Mary - Jesus is out crying in the yard again. I swear! He boobs at the drop of the hat! The Knish boy shot down a sparrow for target practice, and Jesus just falls apart, boo hooing like he made the darn thing! And then he cries because I look disappointed. I don't know what we're gonna do with him - really I don't. Public school is OUT of the question. Maybe we should just make out like your hippy cousin and go raise him in the wilderness! Let him get all weird like his cousin John! Wander around in his skivvies and go diggin' for honey! Oy! This is NOT what I had planned... Of all the blended families, in all the history that EVER was or that EVER will be, I got THIS one! My boy wouldn't be like this. He'd be a freakin' rock star, baba ganoush!"<br />
<br />
Disappointment Crusty Bear can be awful. But, in hind site, getting crusty bears isn't all that awful though. We grow in compassion from our collection. We cry, suffer, and lift up our tear stained eyes away from the mirror of self pity to notice that there is someone else out there who is also suffering, and could use a little bit of shoulder rubbing, and kindness from those who know what its like. Dang it, this sucks. I'm so sorry you got THAT crusty bear. I'd take it from you if I could. You weren't looking for this. You were just thrown into a situation by virtue of the fact that you were there at that time, and place. Scripture doesn't tell us what happened to ole Simon, but if he inquired about the guy next to him, he would have known that the weight of the cross he was carrying was nothing next to the weight of the cross that the man next to him bore. And I don't think he would have stuck his tongue out. And that, I think, is the lesson.</div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-54626756427355906822011-07-26T10:22:00.000-07:002011-07-26T11:58:49.977-07:00Small Victories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2RPSDCH-2mA3IjgrOibwqv_7VSIzRaz9JE9CiklhxC_dkMD3ypOZ0oXrHonMf5azQlFNmdZDl_kZnOqF19JKhSRjX6P2pmmbfcZoEBXwbXYO0_DUxG9KwLc3eFqFwZshcuM9x8o9dqtY/s1600/010829+Abigail+9+months.01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2RPSDCH-2mA3IjgrOibwqv_7VSIzRaz9JE9CiklhxC_dkMD3ypOZ0oXrHonMf5azQlFNmdZDl_kZnOqF19JKhSRjX6P2pmmbfcZoEBXwbXYO0_DUxG9KwLc3eFqFwZshcuM9x8o9dqtY/s320/010829+Abigail+9+months.01.jpg" width="226" /></a></div><br />
In 2001, when we were living in North Carolina, we took Abigail to get her 9 month photos, and they suggested this bath shot. It was so cute, and we thought our little red head was THE most adorable thing, that we said to ourselves - we should do this for ALL of our kids! And I put the photo away until I had a little free time to hang it up.<br />
<br />
After our move to Ohio, I found a cute-ish bathtub curtain for $4.99 and complimented myself on my thrift as I hung it up in our very first home. Unfortunately, I was on a crisis pregnancy when we moved, so the curtain got left behind. But at only $5, it was worth leaving if it meant trying to get the house to sell.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0UBhVPQS5ZZDTGUWjGAg_f_Cu0v3ZTt3YQTTysB8bpq9eezWBSQJbEWZV21GnSKgz1OkklTg5v5XPDPp0vzhXw4ikDpnmHRHFNuWlDf-bfM22wBEa56bOfTwFTfxfJa178tu3A4vwVwY/s1600/050624+Benjamin+Tub+Time+-+Auto+Levels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0UBhVPQS5ZZDTGUWjGAg_f_Cu0v3ZTt3YQTTysB8bpq9eezWBSQJbEWZV21GnSKgz1OkklTg5v5XPDPp0vzhXw4ikDpnmHRHFNuWlDf-bfM22wBEa56bOfTwFTfxfJa178tu3A4vwVwY/s320/050624+Benjamin+Tub+Time+-+Auto+Levels.jpg" width="320" /></a>In 2005, when we were living in Nevada, we got our blonde preemie baby - Bear - to a healthy weight, and had his 9 month pictures taken in the tub. We framed the two pictures and started a "duckie" themed bathroom. The shower curtain cost a hefty $12.95, but with a semi- permanent wall border of duckies on blue, it was too cute to pass up!<br />
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I started trolling the Oriental Trading company for sets of rubber duckies by holiday so I could line them up on the tank. Sometimes the kids would get into them, and I would just have to give a benevolent shake of the head, and say, "Noooooo baby" and then shut the bathroom door. I added a duckie garbage can AND curtain hooks that are in the shape of rubber duckies! I had to take it out of the grocery money, but since I got them at Wal Mart, it wasn't too expensive.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeNfGVvQW2TDM5L27T4wvVLLVz2NX7T9ZauErh5rvBHQJIGQMfQMVUrGCWv4UXnIK7pwYLhOBLfhyphenhyphenrnZweYhVeKCr_l8nXhC2nCDeXc5tZNCjWO7l-7mW4hyphenhyphenLq1W56Mej6wcjwj6zsK9I/s1600/090130+Samuel+in+the+Bath.01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeNfGVvQW2TDM5L27T4wvVLLVz2NX7T9ZauErh5rvBHQJIGQMfQMVUrGCWv4UXnIK7pwYLhOBLfhyphenhyphenrnZweYhVeKCr_l8nXhC2nCDeXc5tZNCjWO7l-7mW4hyphenhyphenLq1W56Mej6wcjwj6zsK9I/s320/090130+Samuel+in+the+Bath.01.jpg" width="255" /></a>In 2009, when we were living in Arizona, we had Sam's picture taken and he had - BY FAR - the most luscious dark hair ever photographed in a tub. The 20-something photographer had to go to the back and get the galvanized tub and dust it off, but we had mission accomplished! I found a chenille-duck-on-white-broadcloth shower curtain ON SALE for 50% off at $24.50 (it gets even better) PLUS! I had a coupon for an additional 20% the entire order, so I splurged on bright "rubber duckie beak" orange towels. And we got a toothbrush holder, that quacked, for Christmas.<br />
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Finding a frame to match the other two, however, was a bit of a challenge. I got a semi-match and figured that if you put them on separate walls, no one really looks too hard. Many of the holiday ducks got mold, and were pitched, which was okay since I was getting so annoyed with the toys being dragged out after they had been put properly away after each holiday.<br />
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Its 2011, and after 10 years, I just put up Isaiah's 9 month picture in a silver frame that doesn't match anything. Finally. All my children sitting in a galvanized tub with duckies at 9 months old. I had to take the other three pictures to the studio, in Utah, to show the photographer what I was talking about. I guess they don't tend to mess with a mom with a surly 10 yr old, and 3 boys all strapped in and around a stroller who is showing 3 silver framed photos to the "photography hostess." So, with worried and annoyed glances to each other they had to pull the props out of deep storage. "You see, I have this THEME for our bathroom... and we wanted ALL the kids to have their picture taken at 9 months sitting in the tub with rubber duckies all around!" They put the tub down and looked at the photographer with an, "I'm so sorry," glance. Grrrrrr.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsH3WI_Qi0I7GtmICnFyG0oS0dAAj8cXY0shsFA9_Uk7DZ7-z3QmBgYNfM04xKi5QkGRcVP-10pZDXolwc8uaX5RyEUcLs5dQ-c6jQ4JVcMMAzKfFxRWDW1_wDhyRjFSUITinj0mjw_RM/s1600/11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsH3WI_Qi0I7GtmICnFyG0oS0dAAj8cXY0shsFA9_Uk7DZ7-z3QmBgYNfM04xKi5QkGRcVP-10pZDXolwc8uaX5RyEUcLs5dQ-c6jQ4JVcMMAzKfFxRWDW1_wDhyRjFSUITinj0mjw_RM/s320/11.jpg" width="258" /></a> I'm not being difficult! I'm trying to be ... consistent, fair, equal opportunity or something!!! And it hasn't been easy! The chenille curtain got scissored by "I don't know," which nearly broke my heart. A $50 curtain GONE, from senseless destruction! Little did I know that it was an omen of things to come.<br />
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So, now we have a plain white waffle curtain - and the bright orange towels are now a dull orange. They have some bleach stains that can be hidden if you fold the towels in thirds and drape each hand towel "just so" over the sagging rod. Unfortunately, they were used to mop up water after a great number of toilet clogging disasters, but since my husband was willing to do it, I didn't complain that he was using my adorable bright orange towels that can no longer be purchased from Linens N' Things because bright orange is now "au tre" in the world of bath fashion!<br />
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Not everything survives. A few ducks from the curtain hangers have had their heads snapped off, and the garbage can, standing alone with nothing in it REEKED from having too many poopy diapers sitting in it, so it was deemed unusable, oh, I don't know how many states ago! As they were questioning me about positioning and whether to put half bubbles or full pictures, I was screaming in my mind, "JUST. TAKE. THE PICTURE, OKAY!". <br />
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So, even though Za is 15 months old - I think - we finally got his pic, in a silver frame, up on the wall. It has taken me 10 years to get a matched set. And now, after all that, as I look at my small victory, I realize that I'm kinda sick of rubber duckies. Now, I realize... that maybe I should have had their pictures taken with a surf board instead when they each turned 5. TOO LATE!</div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-7592369742586856412011-04-29T13:37:00.000-07:002011-04-29T13:55:01.060-07:00Wedding Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUuhY__4DOBvID5d6so98-6fxf29VlqoWz78eR1CmtiyhrgGU9EJkp1buGZo8WZYzIum-ribs5pPwEjERLSs_Id1I6E9AkuIDGMqrn_7HOEyqvvRqEeQdQrfNC4aVzPWk-BSDeHuycOlI/s320/980000+Katrina+dress+pattern.jpg" width="236" /> </div><br />
This morning, as I was texting <b>all</b> my sisters and my mom throughout the Royal Wedding, I naturally started to reflect on my own wedding. My wedding plans started about the time I was five years old. My mom brought home some Vogue pattern books to help me pick out some sewing ideas for Kindergarten jumpers that she was willing to make her first daughter. I thought that the jumpers were boring, but THE WEDDING section. HEY! <u><i><b>Now</b></i></u> you are talking! I poured over the pictures taking mental notes on gowns, veils, flowers, and bridesmaid dresses.<br />
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I think I looked through 3 different catalog books, and settled on this gown as the most beautiful. I asked my mom to make it. She said... "Uh - that's not for school," but seeing an opportunity of a willing mother, I swore that I would wear it to school. Maybe in a different fabric. If she could shrink the pattern a bit.<br />
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She compromised, and allowed me to cut out the picture, put it in a folder, and visit it over the years. And I loved it each time I would pull it out. I did. "That's it! That's the one!" I would think. Some day.<br />
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<a href="http://www.brides.com/blogs/aisle-say/royal-wedding-princess-diana-prince-charles-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.brides.com/blogs/aisle-say/royal-wedding-princess-diana-prince-charles-001.jpg" width="320" /></a>By the time Lady Di's wedding rolled around, I was all of 9 years old. Mom and I got up early to watch the young princess and the fairytale wedding. Like everyone else, we didn't care much about the groom (meh) or what he wore (double meh), but the BRIDE,- oh WOW! So adorable! So unsure of herself and innocent that you felt like you were walking down the aisle with her, not quite knowing what to do, but loving the pomp and beauty of it every step of the way. Huge train. Puffy sleeves and sparkly sparkly tiara. It was the start of a lifetime hobby we would dub, "Wedding Watching."<br />
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As I grew into my teens, and one sister after another joined us in our hobby, we begin to informally stalk weddings. If we found ourselves driving around on a saturday and there were limos and people lingering outside of a church, we would screetch the car to a halt to pull over to watch for that fluff of white emerging from the church doors. We would give each other our personal wedding critique, and then drive on, hoping to score a double wedding over at St. Pats. What fun to see someone's dream being showcased. We looked, but did not touch.Well, except for the time where my sister and I actually got curious enough to go INSIDE a wedding we weren't invited to.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmFarmVzHsgFq9FRCrkojtyuOmuZ8lOAUChk1zWMdsevQxBhGSLYl8662dDKmBY5_ojPV52oL_oREJmPzWbnoGShrqjKgmjbpOTz_Uo8-tDoQFrINp7gCQLuCDM7gKnRdiykJKpDTs-xs/s1600/980627+Iowa+City+Reception+-+Indoor+Portrait+-+Katrina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmFarmVzHsgFq9FRCrkojtyuOmuZ8lOAUChk1zWMdsevQxBhGSLYl8662dDKmBY5_ojPV52oL_oREJmPzWbnoGShrqjKgmjbpOTz_Uo8-tDoQFrINp7gCQLuCDM7gKnRdiykJKpDTs-xs/s320/980627+Iowa+City+Reception+-+Indoor+Portrait+-+Katrina.jpg" width="256" /></a>It just happened about the time I was 20, and Reagan was 14 that we had a car and some time on our hands downtown. We spotted a wedding and nervously dared each other to duck in unnoticed. We sat down before anyone could see that we were in jeans and t-shirts instead of formal wear. We chose a seat based on where to best successfully dodge the 3 video taping cameras, and not let anyone see our jeans, (looking like the total wt of someone's family). Our prime spot was near the front. Oh - it was the best seat in the house!<br />
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After the ceremony, and whispered critiques (off the shoulder, iridescent green floor-length bridesmaid's gowns for a day time wedding?! NOT! *thumbs down*) we had enjoyed ourselves immensely. We knew it was time to start edging to the end of the pew for an edge-of-the-church speedy exit. The bride and groom exited to the "Hallelujah" chorus, down the aisle and out the church as we were covertly scooting over the pew to the edge, trying to make our escape. And that's when the bride and groom... unexpectedly came back UP the aisle together and decided to dismiss everyone row by row. Starting at the FRONT!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibFtGe2StG9NpIGE0mthYk_SRKD99ml9ErDlhFRhPTgolgUmxxjVDyWjS3ZqUYvL_kyufuyAwEgIfz9Tw6mgmZZHYDCvyR7_4f5Xjua8_tWM-OWq-ShK-SDSt2xNYREiAw9e13tynxA2g/s1600/980526+Formal+Engagement+Photo.01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibFtGe2StG9NpIGE0mthYk_SRKD99ml9ErDlhFRhPTgolgUmxxjVDyWjS3ZqUYvL_kyufuyAwEgIfz9Tw6mgmZZHYDCvyR7_4f5Xjua8_tWM-OWq-ShK-SDSt2xNYREiAw9e13tynxA2g/s320/980526+Formal+Engagement+Photo.01.jpg" width="320" /></a>I believe beads of sweat sprung to my head as I realized we could NOT get out of this. They were only one row ahead of us. Naturally, I followed my little sister's lead as she was closest to the aisle. She stood up, swept the bride in her arms, and said, "I'm SO HAPPY FOR YOU!" as she buried her head in the brides neck. I distracted the bride from the startled gaze she gave her new hubby as if to say, "And this isssssss.....?". I said a short, "It was just lovely!" And then we marched <i><b>swiftly</b></i> down the aisle, t-shirts, jeans and all as they went to dismiss the next row of now startled guests; each newlywed trying to figure out whose family we belonged to. We hoped no one was going to try and follow our car to the reception. "Step on the gas!! GO! GO!!"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFddzTLuagf2_qOfoSsISlXaxcCc5L-Bl0dgngQLlQDqrJWsg-JNh0RbLGvCpGmVB9yD309GKaTNZnrk3PqgYxKsN3CVl9LLF2gzNcUiGuvn61YgNJ5Nbq2_FegVETB2nVOWQzUaFOUNQ/s1600/980611+Rose+Garden.01+-+color+adjusted.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFddzTLuagf2_qOfoSsISlXaxcCc5L-Bl0dgngQLlQDqrJWsg-JNh0RbLGvCpGmVB9yD309GKaTNZnrk3PqgYxKsN3CVl9LLF2gzNcUiGuvn61YgNJ5Nbq2_FegVETB2nVOWQzUaFOUNQ/s320/980611+Rose+Garden.01+-+color+adjusted.jpg" width="253" /></a>Once was enough of that adventure. Then I was 25. Post mission, and post dating a lot of guys, I met Matthew. He was my home-teacher at BYU for my last year of studies. I had a bf for the first semester who was living in England. After one fateful date with Matthew to see the International Cinema's "Shall We Dance," and two weeks later, however, we were engaged. I had been accepted to law school, and he thought he would like to take me to the temple instead. I took him up on his offer.<br />
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"Happy" doesn't begin to touch how I felt around him. More like "deliriously happy." We were both from large families, had served missions in Portugal, and had a comfort level with each other I had never known before. Other men had asked me to marry, and I would say, "Oh yeah, sure. Someday..." but with Matthew, I said, "Yes." And I meant, "Yes, and I'll actually get the dress and meet you there." I had never felt that before. And it couldn't happen soon enough! I smiled like crazy. The day we got married I couldn't stop putting my arm around him, holding him, and kissing him. My own fairy-tale was coming true. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGR3ia7z-Lkrw9sXcYHvgQUey4cFuSvcx7wrFB0TOl8NStKWbnLASCifvtbt4NFSL4TueiiTQ3HZdhJZhgIjhcghIMKWL5YzY6OSS14VyFG02e0-IS_edzauKQlnQ75R_A0rA9zUw63vA/s1600/980611+Wedding+-+Together.01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGR3ia7z-Lkrw9sXcYHvgQUey4cFuSvcx7wrFB0TOl8NStKWbnLASCifvtbt4NFSL4TueiiTQ3HZdhJZhgIjhcghIMKWL5YzY6OSS14VyFG02e0-IS_edzauKQlnQ75R_A0rA9zUw63vA/s320/980611+Wedding+-+Together.01.jpg" width="258" /></a>Since my mom had had to construct my dream dress from half a continent away, with no pattern, and using my partner-in-crime sister as a model, there were a few mishaps when the dress came a few days before I got married. I panicked, my mom cried, and I had to make a quick substitution with a display dress by Alyson Wright. She had made it up for McCalls who decided which of her wedding design patterns to carry. The veil was a cast off from the alteration lady's daughter that I immediately started to alter it to my five-year-old fairy-tale dream right up until the night before my wedding.<br />
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My hair was lacquered in place with 110 bobby pins that a startled hairdresser had thought was just a "run through" for a wedding sometime in the next year. Nope! I was getting married the next day.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsyqcT5pmtIGW8_QMHVlqyWXOgvlRLKS3yn6nbKifafJQYpY3eS1atKE_R_yVcaCofpl1rBTsAWzR1E_SWrnIXslWhy9-hHmrtozrTxnIVol0w8TKEFY8Os9NoWguqZ0hmlUnJAdHBr9I/s1600/980611+Wedding+-+Together.04+-+color+adjusted.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsyqcT5pmtIGW8_QMHVlqyWXOgvlRLKS3yn6nbKifafJQYpY3eS1atKE_R_yVcaCofpl1rBTsAWzR1E_SWrnIXslWhy9-hHmrtozrTxnIVol0w8TKEFY8Os9NoWguqZ0hmlUnJAdHBr9I/s320/980611+Wedding+-+Together.04+-+color+adjusted.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The night before my wedding, I was at my paternal grandparents, and my father gave me a special blessing. He said many things, but mostly I remember him saying that even though I couldn't imagine loving Matthew any more than I already did (and I couldn't), that we would develop a deeper love that would continue to increase and deepen the longer we were together. So true. I was so unaware of the things the future would bring.<br />
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And now that my marriage, timeline-wise, is somewhere between Charles and Di, and Kate and William, I have to wonder, "What will it be like for them?" Diana proved that you could marry a prince, have unlimited funds, the adoration of the world, and still be quite miserable. Fairy-tales are in books, and even the real ones have a short shelf life. Life has a way of inserting itself, - its lessons, storms, and trials into every life. And you can't choose those lessons either.<br />
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You don't really know what the future will hold the day you get married. Marriage itself is an expression of faith in the unknown, and deciding to face it together, come what may. On that day everyone (except the ex's perhaps) wishes you well; hopes the best for your future, and that you will use your love and devotion to make the best of it. Cynicism is squelched for a time. Love reigns supreme. Beauty is the order of the day. And even for the most humble bride, there is magic.<br />
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So, sitting on the couch, 30 years after that first fairy-tale wedding, and quite a few years into my own marriage I am reminded of a duet sung by Aaron Nevill & Linda Ronstadt that paraphrases my current feeling: "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=soO0CMnU9Bo"><b>I Don't Know Much:"</b></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNVuyibCiOCrR-spcIQS4StmSyDaC6ppMdasiW7IxTbyfpVFuw83RiGSmOyzA1qRuPom4f-HTeH36_A-t-sIOd9-uzGlhi9sWBUnFRkvwdRpN-gP-EJn7opMgi8rN6ol-ykJqNcn2Km_M/s1600/980627+Iowa+City+Reception+-+Indoor+Portrait+-+Together.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNVuyibCiOCrR-spcIQS4StmSyDaC6ppMdasiW7IxTbyfpVFuw83RiGSmOyzA1qRuPom4f-HTeH36_A-t-sIOd9-uzGlhi9sWBUnFRkvwdRpN-gP-EJn7opMgi8rN6ol-ykJqNcn2Km_M/s320/980627+Iowa+City+Reception+-+Indoor+Portrait+-+Together.jpg" width="255" /></a></div><br />
Look at this face, <br />
I know the years are showing, <br />
Look at this life, <br />
I still don't know where it's going. <br />
I don't know much, <br />
But I know I love you, <br />
And that may be all I need to know. <br />
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So on this day of fairy-tales and dreams for Kate and William, I remember the best of my own wedding and what the future still holds for me and my prince. I don't know much, darling, but I know I love you. And that may be all there is to know.<br />
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</div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-82577660248453889002011-04-27T10:24:00.000-07:002011-04-27T10:24:36.094-07:00Lasagne Soup<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6DZR7A_OXRMDHZcD6hxRRHmo2tXrDHMhdVSRA6xs5lXKwmGeO2L5uaCYhy-TE_B1uz6mtAw5j7OgLga8zzyoG1drmGVZZKmFY5GXPfjf9ImafYZlzBfmyWwqjzPMtEpqdSTTYQ9obg4Q/s1600/Lasagna+Soup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6DZR7A_OXRMDHZcD6hxRRHmo2tXrDHMhdVSRA6xs5lXKwmGeO2L5uaCYhy-TE_B1uz6mtAw5j7OgLga8zzyoG1drmGVZZKmFY5GXPfjf9ImafYZlzBfmyWwqjzPMtEpqdSTTYQ9obg4Q/s320/Lasagna+Soup.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>This is just a public service. This recipe was circulating on FB, but you had to download a bunch of pictures and what not, so this is the condensed version, click, print, shop for ingredients! If you want to see all of the pics, here it is! http://fix-itandforget-it.com/blog/2011/04/27/yes-lasagna-can-also-be-a-soup/<br />
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Ya Welcome!<br />
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Katrina</div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-2832365767620897952011-04-09T22:33:00.000-07:002011-04-09T22:33:01.649-07:00Toot Toot!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Okay, this is a gratification post - sort of. My sister did her own take on the Medical Binders, and -of course - she did a better job in every way. Writing the post, the way she arranged her own binders - even the pictures of her kids are cuter. So, if you want a better uber way to do your binder, take a gander at THESE instructions:<br />
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http://wuehlers.blogspot.com/2011/04/medical-binders.html<br />
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Dun Dun Da DA Da, I'm lovin' it!</div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-19378909960603580202011-04-03T21:55:00.000-07:002011-04-04T07:08:36.714-07:00You Know You've Been on a Sewing Retreat When....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.reddirtretreats.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/DSCN01072.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="http://www.reddirtretreats.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/DSCN01072.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Having just returned from my second quilting retreat with <a href="http://www.reddirtretreats.com/">Red Dirt Retreat</a>s I've noticed that there are some hallmarks of a great quilting retreat:<br />
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<ol style="text-align: left;"><li>You came with five projects to do, completed two, and started three more new ones.</li>
<li>There are so many threads all over your clothes that you will have to change the dryer's lint trap mid-cycle to avoid burning out the heating element when you next do your laundry.</li>
<li>You don't want to tell your husband that while you were you gone, you didn't shave, use deodorant, make your bed, or get out of your pajamas either.</li>
<li>People you would have passed on the street are now your dearest friends,</li>
<li>There are enough meds between you to stock a small Walgreens. </li>
<li>You learn something new. And things that you never thought you might be interested in - you are!</li>
<li>Like the chautauquas of old, theres a lot of storytelling, and a lot of wisdom shared. You will laugh for years about things that you heard - Vegas ain't got nuthin' on a quilters retreat.</li>
<li>You came with your fabric, but left with someone elses.</li>
<li>You got to use all of your 25,000 words each day, and didn't have to shout once.</li>
<li>When its time to go, its as depressing as watching Ringling Brother's take down the circus tents.</li>
<li>You immediately want to start planning your next retreat...</li>
</ol> In the words of Ferris Bueller, "<i>It is so choice. If you have the means</i>, I highly recommend picking one up". </div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-70431881659038488262011-02-17T14:18:00.000-08:002011-04-08T10:59:06.442-07:00My Good Opinion<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I have been thinking on the subject of My Good Opinion. In preparing for some nuptials I was asked if I didn't have a high opinion of ... someone... (who doesn't read my blog, but may - at some point) "because she had decided to serve a mission." I don't. I have met this girl on one occasion and she did NOT make a good impression. At all. I remember her whispering to her boyfriend behind her hand throughout a family event, not engaging anyone, and then skulking out the door with bf in tow to "get away" from the family without so much as a "thank you for inviting me to your family event." A family who is about as menacing and intimidating as, say, a fluffy baby bunny with a bow around it's neck in a silk basket with taffeta ribbons.<br />
<br />
<div style="color: black;">I am not a great socialite mind you - and oftentimes in engaging people in conversation to draw them out, I have spoken hastily and/or awkwardly. Social situations leave me drained. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault -- "because I would not take the trouble of practicing." And because it is difficult for me, it is also hard to ignore the actions of someone who is so downright rude and thoughtless. Her bf said that she was just "shy," which I have always attributed to another form of selfishness - someone more worried about themselves than the people around them. At least in my opinion.</div><div style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black;">Do I have a good opinion? Anything that someone would desire? And if so - what is it based on? In "thinking out" this quandary I keep coming back to the interaction between Elizabeth Bennett, and Mr. Darcy from Jane Austin's novel, "Pride and Prejudice." In one scene the hero and heroine lock horns over their opinion of each other:</div><div style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: black; text-align: center;"><a href="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT3m3IC7nIbozQx5Sn53RuCId4W_Xyya6eKfr4nqtWRtqmpdCqFfg&t=1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT3m3IC7nIbozQx5Sn53RuCId4W_Xyya6eKfr4nqtWRtqmpdCqFfg&t=1" /></a></div><div style="color: black;">Lizzie launches:<i> "I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise."</i></div><div style="color: black;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="color: black;"><i>"No," said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding-- certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful.</i><i> My good opinion once lost, is lost forever."</i></div><div style="color: black;"><i>"</i><i>That is a failing indeed!" cried Elizabeth. "Implacable resentment </i><i>is a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot </i><i>laugh at it. You are safe from me."</i></div><div style="color: black;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="color: black;"><i>"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil-- a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome." </i></div><div style="color: black;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="color: black;"><i>"And </i><i>your defect is to hate everybody."</i></div><div style="color: black;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="color: black;"><i>"And yours, "he replied with a smile, "is willfully to misunderstand them."</i></div><br />
I wouldn't say that they have a high opinion of each other - would you? If you have read the novel, then you know that they are both right, and they are both wrong in their assessment. A grain of right in a sea of wrong, as it were. In the end, Lizzie discovers -via her visual prejudice - that she has "willfully misunderstood" Darcy - he doesn't hate <i>everybody</i> he just hates country dances and country manners. Darcy realizes too that his pride has kept him from having the same easy association with strangers as his own familiar circle. He comes across as though he hates and criticizes everyone. Largely because he makes it look that way.<br />
<br />
What changes the opinion of these two over the course of a whole novel? Actions. Darcy sees Elizabeth's actions with her family, with her friends, with visitors and even among his own friends and family. His good opinion is not lost forever in circumstances of the heart because though born in the country, Lizzy pays no attention to social norms, but very good attention to people and the things in life that <i>matter</i>. She walks because she enjoys it, cares for her sister when ill, is highly respected among her peers, and tries valiantly to bridge the divide between family, obligation, and social grace.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://austenacious.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/darcy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://austenacious.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/darcy.jpg" width="272" /></a></div>Lizzy opinion also begins to alter when must sit silent as Darcy's character and talents are unwittingly sketched for her by her aunt, uncle and the Darcy's housekeeper:<br />
<br />
<i><u>Housekeeper:</u> I'm sure I know none so handsome, nor so kind.</i><br />
<i><u> Mr. Gardener:</u> Indeed.</i><br />
<i> <u>Housekeeper:</u> Aye, sir. I've never had a cross word from him in my life, and I've known him since he was four years old, but then I've always observed that they that are good-natured when they are children, are good-natured when they grow up. </i><br />
<i><u>Mrs. Gardener:</u> His father was an excellent man.</i><br />
<i><u>Housekeeper:</u> He was, ma'am, and his son will be just like him: the best landlord, and the best master. Ask any of his tenants or his servants. Some people call him proud, but I fancy that's only because he don't rattle away, like other young men do. </i><br />
<br />
So, we must own that not everyone is at their best all the time. Surely it is wisdom that we leave room for opinions to change as we observe others and their actions. Actions do speak louder than words. Actions over a long period of time speak volumes.<br />
<br />
Like Mr. Darcy I do make judgments. I like to allow for the better in human nature, but I also prepare for the worst. Though imperfect and riddled with faults of my own, I also have a calm assurance of rights and wrongs and act accordingly. My dad once said of me that I was like a clear channel. It is a communication channel on which only one transmitter operates at a time. No static. No interference from competing stations. Just a clear signal. And I try to be that. Constant. Predictable. I do not mask what I think, or flatter someone I despise. Social? Yes. Fake? No. Only one feeling operates at a time.<br />
<br />
And what is it worth? I am true to myself. I am a truth-teller. I believe that I would have been the one saying out loud, "The Emperor has no clothes!" Or - "The first time I met you, you were really rude! Nice to see that you changed.... or not." I can't understand the desperate lengths some go to to avoid speaking the truth. Voicing a sound and salient opinion. Surely this attribute won't win me any popularity contests, but this I know; it doesn't really matter what others think of me. I just try to align what I do and say with that of the one person whose good opinion I do crave. And if you want my opinion, I'll note your wisdom for asking, and then let you have it. But, in the end, it is only God's opinion of me that will matter. Well, at least that's what I think, in my humble opinion. <br />
<br />
</div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-4032156050458952672011-02-08T09:30:00.000-08:002011-02-08T10:15:01.049-08:00Adult Temper Tantrum<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCktk15PkvVn6lqbUa5HneJ58JetS8KHErzFjw6va_IqHJQZ2wI8SzYmJ4A5AMx5ZXRQzSLNOcwRoxW_Qz8_KP5b4lBfAb2UbmObVGvTHTcuaN4hEQNQ5ypO2Uj8jlCERMFbDzx-XN4g/s320/veryAngry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCktk15PkvVn6lqbUa5HneJ58JetS8KHErzFjw6va_IqHJQZ2wI8SzYmJ4A5AMx5ZXRQzSLNOcwRoxW_Qz8_KP5b4lBfAb2UbmObVGvTHTcuaN4hEQNQ5ypO2Uj8jlCERMFbDzx-XN4g/s320/veryAngry.jpg" /></a></div>If you look at the anatomy of a temper tantrum, it follows some very basic requirements: failure to comply, bodily resisting, loss of temper, irrational tirade and tears. I see it in my kids time and again. Emotions out of control. And I hate having to deal with a toddler at this level because the toddler doesn't understand something about mom. Mom wants to have a temper tantrum too, and it takes every ounce of carefully cultivated sense of responsibility to not just lose it right back. And I don't. Typically.<br />
<br />
I am in the middle of one right now. Yes, I had to pay this model to look like me, because its really super hard to photograph yourself losing it<i><b> and</b></i> simultaneously not lose the steam of the temper tantrum turning into pathetic self-loathing, "I look like the Bride of Chucky there... no, this one makes me look insane - fat and insane, I'm not using that one...WOW - I wasn't even TRYING to make my eyes pop out, look at that..."<br />
<br />
My temper tantrum started with the Failure to Comply element AND bodily resisting. On snowy mornings that are overcast, it is just the hugest motivation sucker. I don wanna get up- or articula senences, everything about today says, "Go back to bed." So I obey that feeling, and resist doing what I know I OUGHT to do. But time marches on, kids get up no matter what nature is telling me, and it gets later. Hubby is not a morning person either, and upon discovering that mommy is not marshaling the troops, he comes out to see if... if I'm dead, I guess. Nope. Just failing to comply and bodily resisting.<br />
<br />
He looks at me and says, "Uh... its late." Yep. "We gotta get going..." Well. I don't WANNA get up. I don't WANNA hustle everyone around. I don't WANNA start wiping off a sticky counter or the endless baby bums that have been producing acid waste poo lately! I don't WANNA see if everyone got their homework done, or valentines written out! I WANNA sit right here, with my eyes shut and pretend that its all not there!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://i1.squidoocdn.com/resize/squidoo_images/250/draft_lens2287809module12593952photo_1226634454toddler-temper-tantrum2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i1.squidoocdn.com/resize/squidoo_images/250/draft_lens2287809module12593952photo_1226634454toddler-temper-tantrum2.jpg" /></a>And then, like a storm gathering, it hits; emotions out of control. All of the frustrations and unrealistic expectations come pouring forth in a tirade against poo, laundry, grocery shopping and little projects that have become the fodder of your small, non-award winning, insignificant little fiefdom of a life; the irrational tirade:<br />
<br />
"You said we could have adorable obedient children in perpetual new clothes romping over green grass hills carrying balloons to an impossibly thin me! We were supposed to be gazillionaires by now, with a nanny and facials not vacuuming up pasta from the food storage and changing a hundred disgusting diapers while the kids wiggle their poopy bums onto our gross carpet. I am supposed to wear white pants, crips collard shirts and wipe up 4 x 4" messes with paper towels, not entire jars of peanut butter spread around while other kids are flushing my brand new expensive bath gel down the drain in the bathroom and the other ones coloring on the computer monitor screen! I went to college so I could appreciate architecture not wipe off a booger collection off the wall and, once upon a time, I WAS NICE! not an army sergent to a bunch of disobedient munchkins!!" *breathe sob breathe sob sob sob* Let us quietly shut the door on the rest of this tantrum. Tears are flowing, tempers are burning hot, and they just need a quiet spot, and a little time, to burn themselves out. As my mother would say, "Go to bed. Tomorrow will be a better day." And that is what Mother Nature is telling me to do now.<br />
<br />
Toddlers <i><b>do</b></i> get to take that time out, but mom's do not. Now I remember why it is not prudent for mom's to throw a temper tantrum so early in the day. Cuz now I am up, showered, and dialing the school attendance line, "Hi, I am the irresponsible mom who had a temper tantrum instead of getting my children ready on time with a nutritious, well balanced breakfast - but will be sending them off late, hair all askew, clutching a chocolate coated granola bar. They will not be arriving to school in matching clean clothes with backpacks full of carefully reviewed homework - but rather they will be the ones looking like an unmade bed today and partially filled out homework. They will be there though, and I will be put on your list of volatile/irresponsible parents." I just hope that I'm not the only one. Mother Nature called you this morning too, right? *tears*<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4860314003771842723.post-76288167238821482012011-01-20T16:40:00.000-08:002011-01-21T09:08:55.477-08:00Mind the Gap<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.teracomtraining.com/images/mind-the-gap2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="http://www.teracomtraining.com/images/mind-the-gap2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=73YjnOPM324&ob=av2nl <---- what I listened to while writing this...<br />
<br />
My dad is famous for a gesture that is a hand waving back and forth in a horizontal way that is meant to indicate a spectrum of color ranging from black to white. "Noooo gray area..." he would say. Whatever the conversation, what he meant with that wave of the hand was, "Lets make sure that there are no missed expectations.... no gaps in understanding. Stick to the black and white of things."<br />
<br />
Gaps can be rather harmful, and the London subway system goes to great lengths to advertise a gap between the concrete ledge and the train. But even greater dangers seem to be those gaps in understanding between spouses, children and people we love. "I thought YOU were bringing the paper plates!" "Nooo, I was already bringing the silverware, so of course I thought YOU were bringing paper plates." It is this "gray area" of misunderstanding that leaves things implied, not spelled out, that my father strives to eliminate. The same sentiment is expressed by Henry David Thoreau when he said,<br />
<br />
"<span class="body">In human intercourse the tragedy begins, not when there is misunderstanding about words, but when silence is not understood."</span> <span class="bodybold"></span><br />
<span class="bodybold"><br />
</span> <br />
<span class="bodybold">I am trying to eliminate this area of missed expectations in my life. As I turn the ripe old age of 39, I see the gaps between what my younger self had planned, and what life has planned for me<i> instead</i>. Without an accounting and clarification of what dreams I traded in for what I got, there is ample room for disappointment. And in some cases when I review the crossroads in my life, I must just repeat to myself another one of my dad's pithy statements, "Well THAT was an expensive mistake!" </span><br />
<br />
<span class="bodybold">For the others, however, I just have to take a good hard look at the gap. </span>According to the Buddha, we suffer because we crave. What about the gray area is a misery of my own making? <span class="bodybold">Can it be bridged? Can it be fixed? <u><i><b>Should</b></i></u> it be bridged? Did I miss a train somewhere and fall into a gap of missed expectations? I'd hate to admit here how horrifyingly dumb I've been in my life, but there it is. And I'm not alone. Some missed expectations have come from my dealing with others. The desire to change the core personality of others that... will never change - no matter how much reasoning and common sense is presented to them, has brought about a newfound wisdom: You can't change people. I include myself in all this; hardly going from grace to grace myself, I feel like I've tripped face down from one mud puddle into another. I really saw<u><i><b> a lot</b></i></u> of things going differently in my head....</span><br />
<span class="bodybold"><br />
</span> <br />
<span class="bodybold">But I did not miss the boat on a spouse. He is the envy of all I know. I did not miss the train when I got each of my kids that make my life interesting. Whether on a diploma'd piece of paper, or ability I have gained, I have learned a LOT in the past 39 years. I just have to figure out how to mind the gap between what I expected, and what has been presented. Am I wise? OH heaven's no. I can't fix all the gaps and gray area's in my life. I'm just smart enough to recognize a gray area, a gap, or a missed expectation when I see one.<br />
</span> </div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00313524528642000260noreply@blogger.com4