Don't look now, but our family's emergency 72-hour kits are nicely loaded and now sitting down in our cold storage room.
That's a minor miracle, because since the first of April, they've been on the bar in the kitchen, on the floor by the half wall, and most recently out on the back patio waiting for the "emergency food" that needed to be loaded into them.
Hubby thought it would be great to have the entire family go shopping for the emergency food and then all help to load the back packs. Well, I finally pointed out that his plan wasn't working. It had been close to two months, and there was no food to put in the packs. So I finally up and went shopping. And after the emergency food sat for another week or so on our kitchen counter, today I finally just loaded them all up by myself.
We're somewhat new to rotating 72-hour kits. We only just put ours together this past fall. Our plan is to rotate the food, clothing and anything else that needs swapping out during our church's semi-annual General Conferences. (Note: This is also the time we change the batteries in the smoke detectors. Or at least think about changing them.)
If anyone is interested in a list of what we put in our 72-hour kits, drop me a line. (hansenchristie@yahoo.com) I also made and laminated cards for each back pack that has 1) the person's name, 2) a list of what is (or should be) in the pack, 3) a menu for 3 days, and 4) a copy of our family's emergency plan which lists such things as our out-of-state contact, a meeting point should it be impossible to return back to our house and other handy information.
I must say that despite the planning, shopping, nagging and effort that went into organizing our family's emergency kits, it feels great to have them finished.
Now I'm crossing my fingers we won't need them -- ever!
We named our place after the huge garden and 22 fruit trees that fill our bellies, and our spread is just over an acre. Oh, and sometimes we bellyache. But mostly we enjoy our semi-rural lifestyle. You can email us at bellyacrefarm@gmail.com
Friday, May 25, 2007
Friday, May 18, 2007
Microwave Smores Kids Will Love . . .
Loula Belle’s friend next door introduced her to a new treat – microwave smores. The neighbors make them by putting marshmallows on chocolate graham crackers and warming them in the microwave. But I’ve developed a different twist.
This week I read in my Martha Stewart Living magazine about Nutella – the hazelnut and milk chocolate spread that was invented in 1946. Apparently it came about because of the chocolate rationing that took place during World War II. Its inventor was trying to stretch his chocolate a but further and added hazelnuts. Nutella spread was born.
(Note: I’m not guaranteeing the facts in the above paragraph. I went back through my Martha Stewart magazine looking for the Nutella ad, but then remembered that I’m obsessive about tearing out advertisements/cards from new magazines. So the facts are probably at the recycling center by now.)
But back to smores. When I bought Nutella with the handy coupon from the magazine, I also had graham crackers and marshmallows on my shopping list. Ding! That's when I came up my my own version of microwave smores.
Using honey graham crackers, break two graham cracker rectangles into squares. Spread each with a light amount of Nutella spread. Place on a microwave safe plate and top each of the squares with a large marshmallow. Microwave on high for approximately 12 seconds. (Watch closely! The marshmallows balloon to amazing proportions if left too long.)
You can top each square with another graham cracker square . . . or for extra chocolatey smores, spread the top crackers with Nutella before placing them on the marshmallows.
Keep a napkin handy. This treat is both delicious and messy! Enjoy!
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This week I read in my Martha Stewart Living magazine about Nutella – the hazelnut and milk chocolate spread that was invented in 1946. Apparently it came about because of the chocolate rationing that took place during World War II. Its inventor was trying to stretch his chocolate a but further and added hazelnuts. Nutella spread was born.
(Note: I’m not guaranteeing the facts in the above paragraph. I went back through my Martha Stewart magazine looking for the Nutella ad, but then remembered that I’m obsessive about tearing out advertisements/cards from new magazines. So the facts are probably at the recycling center by now.)
But back to smores. When I bought Nutella with the handy coupon from the magazine, I also had graham crackers and marshmallows on my shopping list. Ding! That's when I came up my my own version of microwave smores.
Using honey graham crackers, break two graham cracker rectangles into squares. Spread each with a light amount of Nutella spread. Place on a microwave safe plate and top each of the squares with a large marshmallow. Microwave on high for approximately 12 seconds. (Watch closely! The marshmallows balloon to amazing proportions if left too long.)
You can top each square with another graham cracker square . . . or for extra chocolatey smores, spread the top crackers with Nutella before placing them on the marshmallows.
Keep a napkin handy. This treat is both delicious and messy! Enjoy!
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Thursday, May 17, 2007
No more to-do lists
I don't know about you, but sometimes I hate to-do lists. They just remind me of what I'm not getting done. After a week of seeing "clean toilets" on my job list, I could about puke. (Okay, so maybe it's not the list that's causing me to wretch.)
Today there was no more putting it off. The house (and toilets) needed immediate attention. But instead of making a to-do list, I just dug in and got started. I put my favorite classic rock CDs in the stereo and turned up the volumn. In about an hour and a half the house was sparkling.
Feeling great about what I'd accomplished, I decided to write an "it's-done" list -- an inventory of all the tasks I accomplished. It went something like this:
unloaded/loaded the dishwasher
emptied and re-lined the kitchen, bathroom, office and laundry room garbages
cleaned both upstairs toilets
cleaned both bathroom sinks and countertops
scrubbed the master bathroom shower
scoured the kitchen sink
polished all the upstairs mirrors
cleaned both sides of the window on the patio door
shook all the upstairs rugs (6) -- vacuumed them too
swept the hardwood and bathroom tile
vacuumed the stairs
vacuumed all the upstairs carpet (including my closet)
Whew! Now when my kids complain about the jobs they have to do I can pull out my "it's done" list and say, "Oh yeah! Well look at all the work I did. Quit your bellyaching!" And when my husband asks me what I did today, I'll actually have an answer.
And hey, who knows what tomorrow's "it's-done" list will say. Maybe something like:
read 100 pages in Gone with the Wind
took the dog on a looooong walk
visited with my grandma
filed some magazine clippings
took a little nap
thought about making supper
decided to let everyone forage for themselves.
Today there was no more putting it off. The house (and toilets) needed immediate attention. But instead of making a to-do list, I just dug in and got started. I put my favorite classic rock CDs in the stereo and turned up the volumn. In about an hour and a half the house was sparkling.
Feeling great about what I'd accomplished, I decided to write an "it's-done" list -- an inventory of all the tasks I accomplished. It went something like this:
unloaded/loaded the dishwasher
emptied and re-lined the kitchen, bathroom, office and laundry room garbages
cleaned both upstairs toilets
cleaned both bathroom sinks and countertops
scrubbed the master bathroom shower
scoured the kitchen sink
polished all the upstairs mirrors
cleaned both sides of the window on the patio door
shook all the upstairs rugs (6) -- vacuumed them too
swept the hardwood and bathroom tile
vacuumed the stairs
vacuumed all the upstairs carpet (including my closet)
Whew! Now when my kids complain about the jobs they have to do I can pull out my "it's done" list and say, "Oh yeah! Well look at all the work I did. Quit your bellyaching!" And when my husband asks me what I did today, I'll actually have an answer.
And hey, who knows what tomorrow's "it's-done" list will say. Maybe something like:
read 100 pages in Gone with the Wind
took the dog on a looooong walk
visited with my grandma
filed some magazine clippings
took a little nap
thought about making supper
decided to let everyone forage for themselves.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
How to be comfortable in your own skin
Isn't that a great title for a blog entry? Have you ever felt a bit uncomfortable in your own skin? (Have you noticed that I like to ask questions? The delivery nurse when I was born said of me, "She looks like she wants to ask a question.") I wish that I had all the answers instead of constantly coming up with all the questions. But hey, maybe then I wouldn't be me.
Anyway, today I found day-changing encouragement in the waiting room of a local oil lube / state inspection place. I picked up the February 2007 issue of Real Simple even though I'd brought Gone with the Wind for my reading material and came across an article entitled, "Dare to be different," by Gail Blanke. She's the life coach for Real Simple magazine, and while I've been ambivalent about life coaches in the past, Gail had great advice on staying true to yourself.
Gail writes, "Most of us are afraid to be controversial, or even too intensely who we are. We're like lemonade with too much water in it and too few lemons. We dilute our 'flavor' so we won't offend anyone. And, in the process, we give away our power, the essence of who we are that makes us unique and unforgettable."
A few paragraphs later I got the extra encouragement that I needed. She said, "Truth is, the world belongs not to the one who fits in but to the one who stands out. In music, art, architecture, entertainment, literature, politics, and business, it's the maverick, the one who gets 'carried away,' who wins the day. OK, so you may not want to rule the world or win public office or even be the next American Idol. But to get whatever is it you do want, the principle is the same: Be unabashedly yourself."
Gail Blanke maintains that, "... if enough people love you, the one's who don't, don't matter." While that's a nice sentiment, I'm not sure I subscribe to it. I'm still affected by loved ones opinions of me.
Anyway, today I found day-changing encouragement in the waiting room of a local oil lube / state inspection place. I picked up the February 2007 issue of Real Simple even though I'd brought Gone with the Wind for my reading material and came across an article entitled, "Dare to be different," by Gail Blanke. She's the life coach for Real Simple magazine, and while I've been ambivalent about life coaches in the past, Gail had great advice on staying true to yourself.
Gail writes, "Most of us are afraid to be controversial, or even too intensely who we are. We're like lemonade with too much water in it and too few lemons. We dilute our 'flavor' so we won't offend anyone. And, in the process, we give away our power, the essence of who we are that makes us unique and unforgettable."
A few paragraphs later I got the extra encouragement that I needed. She said, "Truth is, the world belongs not to the one who fits in but to the one who stands out. In music, art, architecture, entertainment, literature, politics, and business, it's the maverick, the one who gets 'carried away,' who wins the day. OK, so you may not want to rule the world or win public office or even be the next American Idol. But to get whatever is it you do want, the principle is the same: Be unabashedly yourself."
Gail Blanke maintains that, "... if enough people love you, the one's who don't, don't matter." While that's a nice sentiment, I'm not sure I subscribe to it. I'm still affected by loved ones opinions of me.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Favorite Family Author -- Richard Peck
I just finished a great book that my Mom loaned to me, On the Wings of Heroes by Richard Peck. It chronicles the life of young Davy Boman, his friend Scooter and the Boman family before and during World War II. I was sad to reach the final page and have the story end. In fact, that’s how I gauge all the books I read. If I’ve loved the book so much that I don’t want it to end, it goes into my list of all-time favorites.
Looking back through my book journal recently, I noticed that Richard Peck books are almost always part of my all-time favorites. And the fun part is, they are books our whole family enjoys reading.
When our children were a bit younger we used to choose a book to read aloud as a family before bedtime. Even though there weren’t pictures to look at, we found that our kids rarely wanted to stop at just one chapter. It could be that they wanted to extend their bedtime, but mostly I think they were drawn into great stories. If you’ve been looking for some books that are great to read aloud to your kids, here are some great ones by Richard Peck.
A Long Way from Chicago: Readers of all ages can relate to this book. Our kids were aghast at the antics of the grandma in this story. I also loaned it to my own grandmother, and she found it to be deliciously funny. A neighbor of mine used to work for an adult daycare center. She read it to the folks there. They couldn’t get enough of it! It really is a must-not-miss book!
A Year Down Yonder: This is the follow up book to A Long Way from Chicago. Same great characters but with a year’s worth of antics. We read it as a family and loved it so much that most of us re-read it on our own.
Fair Weather: The story of a farm family during the Depression and their trip to the World’s Fair. (The grandpa in this tale is a scream!)
The Teacher’s Funeral: Russell Culver, a young farm boy living in the early 1900s, goes to a one-room school with the rest of his community. When their old teacher dies, he’s mortified to find that his sister, Tansy, takes her place. This book even adds a little romance and kept me guessing as to which suitor Tansy would end up with. A great read to get a taste of what school and life were like near the turn of the last century.
Here Lies the Librarian: Jake and PeeWee run a small garage in a small town at the start of the automobile age. This tale chronicles how the town library is brought back to life by four college educated librarians from Indianapolis. I can’t give it away, but there’s a big community stock car race and Jake and PeeWee enter a car. Let me just say that you’ll be surprised by the outcome.
So there you have it – five great reads for families. If you have other stories that your family enjoys reading, I’d love to hear about them.
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Looking back through my book journal recently, I noticed that Richard Peck books are almost always part of my all-time favorites. And the fun part is, they are books our whole family enjoys reading.
When our children were a bit younger we used to choose a book to read aloud as a family before bedtime. Even though there weren’t pictures to look at, we found that our kids rarely wanted to stop at just one chapter. It could be that they wanted to extend their bedtime, but mostly I think they were drawn into great stories. If you’ve been looking for some books that are great to read aloud to your kids, here are some great ones by Richard Peck.
A Long Way from Chicago: Readers of all ages can relate to this book. Our kids were aghast at the antics of the grandma in this story. I also loaned it to my own grandmother, and she found it to be deliciously funny. A neighbor of mine used to work for an adult daycare center. She read it to the folks there. They couldn’t get enough of it! It really is a must-not-miss book!
A Year Down Yonder: This is the follow up book to A Long Way from Chicago. Same great characters but with a year’s worth of antics. We read it as a family and loved it so much that most of us re-read it on our own.
Fair Weather: The story of a farm family during the Depression and their trip to the World’s Fair. (The grandpa in this tale is a scream!)
The Teacher’s Funeral: Russell Culver, a young farm boy living in the early 1900s, goes to a one-room school with the rest of his community. When their old teacher dies, he’s mortified to find that his sister, Tansy, takes her place. This book even adds a little romance and kept me guessing as to which suitor Tansy would end up with. A great read to get a taste of what school and life were like near the turn of the last century.
Here Lies the Librarian: Jake and PeeWee run a small garage in a small town at the start of the automobile age. This tale chronicles how the town library is brought back to life by four college educated librarians from Indianapolis. I can’t give it away, but there’s a big community stock car race and Jake and PeeWee enter a car. Let me just say that you’ll be surprised by the outcome.
So there you have it – five great reads for families. If you have other stories that your family enjoys reading, I’d love to hear about them.
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Sunday, April 29, 2007
Patience Report #5: Soccer Game Blow-up
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Did you wonder if I’d given up on my personal patience plan? I must say that the idea is often tempting. Especially when I’m coaching my daughter’s soccer team. Take yesterday for example. We played a game in Logan at 2 o’clock. It started out fine, but between the sun beating down and the coach of the other team, I guess you could say that I got a little overheated.
Mr. Coach’s two older kids had refereed the previous game at the field, and a couple of the referees for our game were their friends. No problem. The problem was that the referee on the side of the field where they were and where I sat was a new ref. This was only the second game he’d reffed, and Mr. Coach and his children seemed to constantly question his calls and even went to far as to tell him what to call.
Now, I know that many fans at sporting events like to tell officials how to call the game, but in this case, the poor ref caved-in to their tactics. Mr. Coach asked if the ref was going to call off-sides on an indirect kick. The young referee looked baffled and after Mr. Coach told him that you can’t call off-sides from an indirect kick, the referee said he wouldn’t call off-sides. Mr. Coach then yells at all his girls to head toward the goal – even though the kick is from mid-field.
I couldn’t stand by and let Mr. Coach misinform our ref, so I said, “You’re kidding, right? Stop coaching the ref and just coach your girls. And don’t play dumb. Of course he’s going to call off-sides.”
If that were all I’d said to the other coach I wouldn’t be writing this patience report. No, as he continued to coach the ref, I asked him again to please stop coaching the ref. My tone of voice wasn’t nice. I was disgusted. In fact, you could say that he brought out the mother bear in me. Here are my girls running their guts out in the hot sun, really playing with heart, and the other team’s coach is getting the ref to make calls totally in his favor that aren’t even correct. I felt it was unfair to my players.
What really sent me over the edge was when one of Mr. Coach’s players kicked a ball off our goal post and it rolled in front of the goal line. (My own daughter was the goalie. That might have had something to do with my reaction.) Mr. Coach and his off-duty referee kids immediately began yelling at the ref that it should have been a goal. I became flabbergasted when play stopped and it looked like the refs might actually reconsider their original call of “no goal.” I was livid. “Just
SHUT UP!” I yelled. “It’s not your call. Quit telling the refs what to do.”
While I directed my comments to Mr. Coach, both his kids and the parents of his players responded to my anger. Let me just say that it was a very hostile environment. I tried to explain my frustration at having calls changed because the coach was telling the ref what to do, but no one from the other team seemed to care. They just looked at me like I was going postal.
I heard one woman say, “You’ve really got a temper problem, but at least you don’t take it out on your girls.”
Ouch.
I left the game feeling awful. To some extent I was uncomfortable with the reaction my comments had stirred, but mostly I was disappointed in myself for having lost my cool. Really, if I had been coaching from the other side of the field, would I have said those things? Did what I say change the outcome of the game? And what kind of an example was I setting for the eleven- and twelve-year-old girls that I coach? Let me just say that I went home riding a roller coaster of emotions.
Once home, the big item on my to-do list was prepare my gospel doctrine Sunday school lesson. Great. Nothing like losing your temper to set the right tone for teaching a lesson about the life of the Savior. I gave myself a little time, took a shower, called a friend, and eventually sat down to organize a teaching outline for Sunday’s lesson. The words of the scriptures began to soften my heart, began to even out my emotions. I read in John 8:12, “. . . I am the light of the world: he
that followeth me shall not walk in darkness . . .” and my outlook brightened.
Fast forward to this morning. I’m getting ready for church. Thinking about the lesson that I’ll give. Still bothered by my actions from the soccer game. Remembering my plan to practice patience this year and conceding another failed attempt. I acknowledge that I have yet another wrong to repent of.
There was a part of me that wanted to be right. Wanted vindication. Did I really feel sorry for my outburst? Was I truly repentant? I decided that I was, and as I thought about taking the sacrament in a little over an hour I realized that repentance involves more than just feeling sorry. I also needed to make restitution. The thought came that I ought to call Mr. Coach and apologize.
I can’t say that once I hit upon the idea of calling to apologize that I felt better. If anything, I felt worse. It reminded me of the time from my childhood that I’d taken candy bars out of the neighbors freezer and then had to go and confess my deed and pay them back for the candy bar. Standing on their front porch made my stomach churn, and reaching out to push the doorbell scared me to death. When their mom answered the door I thought I’d die of embarrassment. But somehow I got my confession out and paid my quarter.
This morning was no different from when I was four years old. My stomach felt unsettled as I searched through the papers of my soccer folder to find Mr. Coach’s number. I dialed it and wondered if he’d even be home, almost hoped that he wouldn’t be. He was, and when I had him on the line I felt dumb and a bit nervous.
I came straight to the point. “Hi, this is the coach from the team you played yesterday. I just wanted to call and apologize for my behavior. I’m really sorry.”
The man was very nice. He even tried to make me feel better by saying that competition can bring out the worst in anyone. I assured him that when we met again I’d do better. He said that he would too.
The experience was so positive that I used it to end my Sunday school lesson. We’d just spent class talking about Christ being the light of the world. We’d read where he’d said, “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free. . . . Verily, verily I say unto you, Whosoever committeth sin is the servant of sin. . . . If the Son therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed.” (John 8:32, 34, 36)
I can honestly say that after making that phone call this morning, I felt lighter. It was as if a weight had been removed. I no longer was plagued with dark thoughts of doubt about whether I’d been in the right. I wasn’t weighed down by regret. I felt free!
I’m grateful for the process of repentance and the miracle of Christ’s atonement. Because of it I can use Saturday’s loss of patience as a learning experience. I can remember how I felt before repenting and contrast that to the light and freedom I felt afterwards. I’m sure I’ll still struggle with patience, but through Christ I can repent and eventually overcome my weakness.
Stay tuned. It may take a while.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Annie Investigates -- The Cow Who Thought She was a Dog
Welcome to the first installment of Annie Investigates – a series of entries by my puppy Annie. As a puppy, she is curious about everything. To help focus her investigative instinct, I’ve given her the assignment to look into strange stories and tell us whether they are true or not.
Annie’s first assignment -- verify whether or not a cow from Manti, Utah really thought she was a dog.
Annie’s Report
Rumors, like gossip, spread like wildfire. By the time I heard the story about the cow who thought she was a dog, it came through my boss, who heard it from her husband, who heard it from his neighbor who claims that the said cow belonged to his aunt and uncle. As Manti, Utah is a bit far for a puppy to roam, I decided to start with the neighbor. See what he could recall about his aunt and uncle’s strange cow.
I found Mr. C to be very cooperative during my interview. Turns out that he actually met the cow in question. Later in the cow’s life Mr. C’s family purchased her and converted her from a dog-cow to a milk-cow. But that’s the end of this story. Using Mr. C as my eye witness, let’s start at the beginning.
Dan and Susan ran a small farm in Manti, Utah. Their milk cow gave birth to a female Holstein calf which they named Taffy. Because their farm was small and isolated, Taffy was given more freedom then most calves. In fact, Dan and Susan’s German Shepherd, Sadie, adopted Taffy as her own offspring. Details are sketchy, but it would seem that Taffy the cow imprinted on Sadie the dog, and thus began her life’s adventure.
For starters, Sadie the dog slept on the front porch. Naturally, Taffy did as Sadie did and took up occupancy on the front porch. A small calf sleeping on the front porch with the dog is no big deal, but a full grown Holstein sleeping on the front porch with the dog is, well . . . a really BIG deal! Using the front door soon became a hassle, but Dan and Susan’s family slept soundly at night knowing they were protected by one German Shepherd and one very large Holstein.
Mowing the lawn soon became all but impossible. No one, it seems, wanted to pick up the dog doodle and cow pies before mowing, and mowing over them was strictly out of the question!
Mr. C says that the most disturbing habit Taffy picked up from Sadie was chasing cars. As Mr. C told me about this, his eyes gleamed with mischief. “Well,” he said, “my aunt and uncle lived a ways out of town. Some people who drove past were probably lost, and you can imagine their surprise to look in their rearview mirror and see not only a large German Shepherd, but an even larger black and white cow chasing after them too. That’s when they really hit the gas!”
Apparently Taffy’s lifestyle as a dog became a bit much for her family. They eventually decided that she needed to revert back to her genetics and spend her days as a milk cow. Knowing her attachment to Sadie, however, they thought it best to sell her and separate her from her adopted mother. (You can cry a little if it will help you feel better.)
In the end, Mr. C’s family bought Taffy. Unlike their other cows, Taffy had to be kept in very secure confines. It seems she’d picked up the dog habit of swimming, so fences that stopped at the edge of a pond couldn’t keep her in. And like a dog, she sometimes tried to go under the bottom strand on barbed wire fences. Only the very best enclosures would do.
I know this tale seems hard to believe, but I’m calling it like I see it. Everything hangs on Mr. C’s testimony, and as a dog I consider myself a pretty good judge of character. I say he’s telling the truth.
There really was a cow from Manti, Utah who thought she was a dog. Case Closed.
Annie’s first assignment -- verify whether or not a cow from Manti, Utah really thought she was a dog.
Annie’s Report
Rumors, like gossip, spread like wildfire. By the time I heard the story about the cow who thought she was a dog, it came through my boss, who heard it from her husband, who heard it from his neighbor who claims that the said cow belonged to his aunt and uncle. As Manti, Utah is a bit far for a puppy to roam, I decided to start with the neighbor. See what he could recall about his aunt and uncle’s strange cow.
I found Mr. C to be very cooperative during my interview. Turns out that he actually met the cow in question. Later in the cow’s life Mr. C’s family purchased her and converted her from a dog-cow to a milk-cow. But that’s the end of this story. Using Mr. C as my eye witness, let’s start at the beginning.
Dan and Susan ran a small farm in Manti, Utah. Their milk cow gave birth to a female Holstein calf which they named Taffy. Because their farm was small and isolated, Taffy was given more freedom then most calves. In fact, Dan and Susan’s German Shepherd, Sadie, adopted Taffy as her own offspring. Details are sketchy, but it would seem that Taffy the cow imprinted on Sadie the dog, and thus began her life’s adventure.
For starters, Sadie the dog slept on the front porch. Naturally, Taffy did as Sadie did and took up occupancy on the front porch. A small calf sleeping on the front porch with the dog is no big deal, but a full grown Holstein sleeping on the front porch with the dog is, well . . . a really BIG deal! Using the front door soon became a hassle, but Dan and Susan’s family slept soundly at night knowing they were protected by one German Shepherd and one very large Holstein.
Mowing the lawn soon became all but impossible. No one, it seems, wanted to pick up the dog doodle and cow pies before mowing, and mowing over them was strictly out of the question!
Mr. C says that the most disturbing habit Taffy picked up from Sadie was chasing cars. As Mr. C told me about this, his eyes gleamed with mischief. “Well,” he said, “my aunt and uncle lived a ways out of town. Some people who drove past were probably lost, and you can imagine their surprise to look in their rearview mirror and see not only a large German Shepherd, but an even larger black and white cow chasing after them too. That’s when they really hit the gas!”
Apparently Taffy’s lifestyle as a dog became a bit much for her family. They eventually decided that she needed to revert back to her genetics and spend her days as a milk cow. Knowing her attachment to Sadie, however, they thought it best to sell her and separate her from her adopted mother. (You can cry a little if it will help you feel better.)
In the end, Mr. C’s family bought Taffy. Unlike their other cows, Taffy had to be kept in very secure confines. It seems she’d picked up the dog habit of swimming, so fences that stopped at the edge of a pond couldn’t keep her in. And like a dog, she sometimes tried to go under the bottom strand on barbed wire fences. Only the very best enclosures would do.
I know this tale seems hard to believe, but I’m calling it like I see it. Everything hangs on Mr. C’s testimony, and as a dog I consider myself a pretty good judge of character. I say he’s telling the truth.
There really was a cow from Manti, Utah who thought she was a dog. Case Closed.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Wheel Barrow Polo and Marriage Enrichment
Need some ideas on how to add a little fun to your marriage? Take a page out of Ron and Nancy’s book and gather your friends for an evening of familiar games given a crazy twist.
Ron and Nancy are our neighbors to the back. A week ago my husband and I received an invitation from them to a date night for couples. All we knew was that we needed to bring a wheel barrow and two large garbage bags. I wondered if we were getting roped into some sort of yard clean up activity. What else could we use garbage bags and a wheel barrow for?
On Friday evening, we found out. Ten couples attended and were divided into two teams. It turns out that the garbage bags were for us to wear . . . while our blind-folded spouse fed us spaghetti, salad, garlic toast and our beverage. Keep in mind that it was a race. The men fed the women first, and although we needed to use a fork, some men simply used it to push the food from the plate into their wive’s mouths. Hubby and I took a more genteel approach but managed to finish in good time. We did great until it came time for him to help me drink my cup of water. I think more went down my shirt than down my throat.
After the women had successfully fed the men their dinner, we went outdoors to use the wheel barrows. . . not for work, but for an exciting game of wheel barrow polo.
Each woman selected a whacking stick (a plastic stick with a large foam hitting area covered with a sock) and then climbed into a wheel barrow. Her husband’s job was to cart her to where the foam ball was so she could hit it into her team’s goal.
I wish that I were more technologically gifted so that I could down-load the video from our match and post it on my blog. But, alas, I’m not. You’ll just have to use your imagination. Imagine ten men pushing ten wheel barrows with a woman wielding a stick at the helm of each. Some women, like me, were seated on their rears with their legs hanging over the front of the wheel barrow. Others knelt down. I liked to swing my stick from side to side during breaks in play while trying to make light saber sound effects. Susan, on the other hand, enjoyed holding her stick straight out as if she were a knight on a charging steed.
Joe and Lisa seemed to be the fastest couple. Someone would whack the ball up-field, and off Joe would go, pushing Lisa into excellent batting position. A couple time the wheel barrows collided. Jennifer has a bruise on her upper arm from where it smacked into an opponent’s wheel barrow while she was trying to whack the ball. Turning sharply was another problem. John tipped Cristyl over. Ditto Matt and DeeAnn. The only couple immune from tipping problems was Brian and Jennifer. They were equipped with the only 2-wheeled barrow on the field.
After 20 minutes of play, most of the men started slowing down a bit. And with good reason. Running up and down the field while toting your wife in a wheel barrow is hard work! Katherine was the first woman to switch positions with her husband. (Quinn had gotten her attention by lying spread-eagle on the grass and moaning.) Soon most of the other women followed her example and began toting their husbands around the field. This, of course, slowed the game down even more, and after only five minutes or so, most of the men had resumed the carrying responsibilities.
After over 30 minutes of playing time, the game ended in a tie. (Bruce may have been a bit disappointed as he tried anything and everything to win.)
Next we played three-legged California kick ball. Not only did we have to coordinate our running, but each couple had to use the legs that were bound together to kick the ball. Kevin and Susan played as if they’d been practicing being a three-legged couple for months. Joe and Lisa, on the other hand, provided the comic relief for the evening. After kicking the ball together, he went one way and she went the other. The most spectacular move of the night went to Ron and Raquel. While they were cruising in to score, they somehow got out of sync and fell head over
tea kettle. Jennifer said it looked like a rolling ball of arms and legs. Fortunately, only their pride was hurt, and they were able to get up and complete their run before the other team could hit them with the ball.
I can’t remember the final score for the night, but that’s okay. The main thing is that we all had fun. We laughed and laughed, took a few tumbles, maybe even got a few bruises, but everyone enjoyed an evening with their sweetheart that they won’t soon forget!
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Ron and Nancy are our neighbors to the back. A week ago my husband and I received an invitation from them to a date night for couples. All we knew was that we needed to bring a wheel barrow and two large garbage bags. I wondered if we were getting roped into some sort of yard clean up activity. What else could we use garbage bags and a wheel barrow for?
On Friday evening, we found out. Ten couples attended and were divided into two teams. It turns out that the garbage bags were for us to wear . . . while our blind-folded spouse fed us spaghetti, salad, garlic toast and our beverage. Keep in mind that it was a race. The men fed the women first, and although we needed to use a fork, some men simply used it to push the food from the plate into their wive’s mouths. Hubby and I took a more genteel approach but managed to finish in good time. We did great until it came time for him to help me drink my cup of water. I think more went down my shirt than down my throat.
After the women had successfully fed the men their dinner, we went outdoors to use the wheel barrows. . . not for work, but for an exciting game of wheel barrow polo.
Each woman selected a whacking stick (a plastic stick with a large foam hitting area covered with a sock) and then climbed into a wheel barrow. Her husband’s job was to cart her to where the foam ball was so she could hit it into her team’s goal.
I wish that I were more technologically gifted so that I could down-load the video from our match and post it on my blog. But, alas, I’m not. You’ll just have to use your imagination. Imagine ten men pushing ten wheel barrows with a woman wielding a stick at the helm of each. Some women, like me, were seated on their rears with their legs hanging over the front of the wheel barrow. Others knelt down. I liked to swing my stick from side to side during breaks in play while trying to make light saber sound effects. Susan, on the other hand, enjoyed holding her stick straight out as if she were a knight on a charging steed.
Joe and Lisa seemed to be the fastest couple. Someone would whack the ball up-field, and off Joe would go, pushing Lisa into excellent batting position. A couple time the wheel barrows collided. Jennifer has a bruise on her upper arm from where it smacked into an opponent’s wheel barrow while she was trying to whack the ball. Turning sharply was another problem. John tipped Cristyl over. Ditto Matt and DeeAnn. The only couple immune from tipping problems was Brian and Jennifer. They were equipped with the only 2-wheeled barrow on the field.
After 20 minutes of play, most of the men started slowing down a bit. And with good reason. Running up and down the field while toting your wife in a wheel barrow is hard work! Katherine was the first woman to switch positions with her husband. (Quinn had gotten her attention by lying spread-eagle on the grass and moaning.) Soon most of the other women followed her example and began toting their husbands around the field. This, of course, slowed the game down even more, and after only five minutes or so, most of the men had resumed the carrying responsibilities.
After over 30 minutes of playing time, the game ended in a tie. (Bruce may have been a bit disappointed as he tried anything and everything to win.)
Next we played three-legged California kick ball. Not only did we have to coordinate our running, but each couple had to use the legs that were bound together to kick the ball. Kevin and Susan played as if they’d been practicing being a three-legged couple for months. Joe and Lisa, on the other hand, provided the comic relief for the evening. After kicking the ball together, he went one way and she went the other. The most spectacular move of the night went to Ron and Raquel. While they were cruising in to score, they somehow got out of sync and fell head over
tea kettle. Jennifer said it looked like a rolling ball of arms and legs. Fortunately, only their pride was hurt, and they were able to get up and complete their run before the other team could hit them with the ball.
I can’t remember the final score for the night, but that’s okay. The main thing is that we all had fun. We laughed and laughed, took a few tumbles, maybe even got a few bruises, but everyone enjoyed an evening with their sweetheart that they won’t soon forget!
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Monday, April 09, 2007
Silk "Tie-dyed" Eggs
1. Purchase colorful ties at second hand store, or raid your husband’s closet for reject ties.
2. Cut ties into pieces to wrap around raw eggs.
3. Use larger pieces of cloth to tightly hold tie pieces against the eggs. Secure outside cloth with twisty tie.
4. Put eggs in a saucepan and cover with cold water. Add 1/4 c. vinegar. Bring eggs to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat, cover and simmer for 20 minutes.
5. Remove pan from heat and run cold water into the pan until the water is cool. Drain eggs.
6. Remove cloth and behold . . . tie-dyed eggs!
Note: Once the eggs are dry, oil them for an extra fancy look.
2. Cut ties into pieces to wrap around raw eggs.
3. Use larger pieces of cloth to tightly hold tie pieces against the eggs. Secure outside cloth with twisty tie.
4. Put eggs in a saucepan and cover with cold water. Add 1/4 c. vinegar. Bring eggs to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat, cover and simmer for 20 minutes.
5. Remove pan from heat and run cold water into the pan until the water is cool. Drain eggs.
6. Remove cloth and behold . . . tie-dyed eggs!
Note: Once the eggs are dry, oil them for an extra fancy look.
Natural, Onion-dyed Eggs
The following instructions create beautifully dyed eggs. They aren’t brightly colored, but are a warm, amber color.
1. Boil dried onion skins (as many as possible) in 4 - 6 cups of water. Simmer for a couple hours and then let cool. (This step may be done days in advance. The longer the onions soak in the water, the darker your eggs will be.)
2. Use raw eggs. Be sure that they have no oil or residue on them, as it could hinder the coloring process. For fun patterns on eggs, press flowers, baby breath, ferns, etc. against egg and use pieces of nylon stocking to keep the greenery pressed tight against the egg. Tie tightly with a twisty tie.
3. Place wrapped eggs in a large saucepan. Pour in cool onion skin water to cover the eggs. (If there’s not enough onion skin water, add cold water until eggs are covered.) Add 1/4 c. vinegar.
3. Bring eggs in water to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat and cover, simmering for 15 to 20 minutes. Remove pan from heat and add ice cubes to stop cooking. Let sit for 10 - 15 minutes.
4. Remove eggs from pan. Cut off nylon and remove greenery. Let eggs dry on a paper towel for 5 minutes. (Don’t rub to dry as color may rub off too.) Once they’re dry, oil the colored eggs. (I like to use a sandwich bag as a glove and pour the oil onto the bag. Then I simply rub the eggs.)
5. Result . . . Beautiful Natually Dyed Eggs!
1. Boil dried onion skins (as many as possible) in 4 - 6 cups of water. Simmer for a couple hours and then let cool. (This step may be done days in advance. The longer the onions soak in the water, the darker your eggs will be.)
2. Use raw eggs. Be sure that they have no oil or residue on them, as it could hinder the coloring process. For fun patterns on eggs, press flowers, baby breath, ferns, etc. against egg and use pieces of nylon stocking to keep the greenery pressed tight against the egg. Tie tightly with a twisty tie.
3. Place wrapped eggs in a large saucepan. Pour in cool onion skin water to cover the eggs. (If there’s not enough onion skin water, add cold water until eggs are covered.) Add 1/4 c. vinegar.
3. Bring eggs in water to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat and cover, simmering for 15 to 20 minutes. Remove pan from heat and add ice cubes to stop cooking. Let sit for 10 - 15 minutes.
4. Remove eggs from pan. Cut off nylon and remove greenery. Let eggs dry on a paper towel for 5 minutes. (Don’t rub to dry as color may rub off too.) Once they’re dry, oil the colored eggs. (I like to use a sandwich bag as a glove and pour the oil onto the bag. Then I simply rub the eggs.)
5. Result . . . Beautiful Natually Dyed Eggs!
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Pharmacy Patron of the Month
I just got back from the pharmacy. I was there yesterday as well, and during yesterday’s visit I referred to myself as their patron of the month. Well, as I walked in today, they remembered and asked, “How is our patron of the month?”
I just laughed. The folks there know me by name – without looking at the computer, written prescription or my check. In fact, on Monday when I went in to pick up the re-fills I’d called in earlier, the attendant had recognized my car and had them ready for me. I go there so much they even know my car. How embarrassing.
Those of you who read this blog already know I’m nuts, but you’re not the only ones. The pharmacy employees are on to me too. For years they’ve filled my prescriptions and been privy to almost as much information as my primary care physician. I think they may know more about me than my bishop does.
Anyway, today I felt especially chatty. I was talking with the pharmacist and bemoaning the fact that my husband never gets sick and hates to take pills even for a headache. I’ve finally gotten to the point that I’ve told him, “if you haven’t taken something for your headache, you can’t complain about it.” I went on to vent about my current pharmaceutical dependency just not seeming fair.
The pharmacist said, “Well, you sure seem perky today. Are you sure you really need these pills?” (They were anti-depressants.) I assured him that unfortunately my depression is chemically based, otherwise I’d happily give up the pills. He also got the shortened version of my “if you need medication, take it” talk. I briefly explained my pet peeve of people with depression trying to do anything about it except taking medication. “You know why I take medication?” I asked him. “For my family. I’m a whole lot easier to live with when I’m on medication.” Just for
kicks I finished up with, “And besides, if I have to take medication, everyone should have to.”
The pharmacist laughed, took a phone call and another employee finished helping me with my purchase. As I was walking out I thanked them. As an afterthought I added, “And my family thanks you.”
Really, when you think about it, being able to take the medicines I do is a blessing. If I’d have lived 100 years ago with my current health challenges, not only would I likely develop diabetes, but I’d be spending my best years as a thin-haired, ornery, uptight, overweight, nagging housewife. I may not have even been able to have children. Poor Hubby. And poor me.
As it is, my family only has to put up the with nagging and occasional monthly emotional outbursts. Do they realize how lucky they are?
I just laughed. The folks there know me by name – without looking at the computer, written prescription or my check. In fact, on Monday when I went in to pick up the re-fills I’d called in earlier, the attendant had recognized my car and had them ready for me. I go there so much they even know my car. How embarrassing.
Those of you who read this blog already know I’m nuts, but you’re not the only ones. The pharmacy employees are on to me too. For years they’ve filled my prescriptions and been privy to almost as much information as my primary care physician. I think they may know more about me than my bishop does.
Anyway, today I felt especially chatty. I was talking with the pharmacist and bemoaning the fact that my husband never gets sick and hates to take pills even for a headache. I’ve finally gotten to the point that I’ve told him, “if you haven’t taken something for your headache, you can’t complain about it.” I went on to vent about my current pharmaceutical dependency just not seeming fair.
The pharmacist said, “Well, you sure seem perky today. Are you sure you really need these pills?” (They were anti-depressants.) I assured him that unfortunately my depression is chemically based, otherwise I’d happily give up the pills. He also got the shortened version of my “if you need medication, take it” talk. I briefly explained my pet peeve of people with depression trying to do anything about it except taking medication. “You know why I take medication?” I asked him. “For my family. I’m a whole lot easier to live with when I’m on medication.” Just for
kicks I finished up with, “And besides, if I have to take medication, everyone should have to.”
The pharmacist laughed, took a phone call and another employee finished helping me with my purchase. As I was walking out I thanked them. As an afterthought I added, “And my family thanks you.”
Really, when you think about it, being able to take the medicines I do is a blessing. If I’d have lived 100 years ago with my current health challenges, not only would I likely develop diabetes, but I’d be spending my best years as a thin-haired, ornery, uptight, overweight, nagging housewife. I may not have even been able to have children. Poor Hubby. And poor me.
As it is, my family only has to put up the with nagging and occasional monthly emotional outbursts. Do they realize how lucky they are?
Friday, March 30, 2007
Finding Contentment With Help from the Scriptures
Our Relief Society lesson last Sunday was on scripture study. While reading the lesson I realized that my personal scripture study has been lacking. One sister in my ward suggested that for more meaningful scripture study it’s often helpful to pick a topic and look up the scriptures relating to it. Seeing as how I’m constantly struggling with contentment, I chose it as my topic. Here are a few references and how I’ve learned from them.
1 Timothy 6:6-8 “But godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we carry nothing out. And having food and raiment let us be therewith content.”
In other words, don’t focus on material things. Be grateful for what you have. Having food and clothing is enough to be content with. In the food category, I enjoy Dannon Light ‘n Fit yogurt, crisp gala apples, crunchy carrot sticks with fat free ranch dip. And about raiment. Just this morning I realized that I get to wear my favorite clothes every day – jeans and tennis shoes.
When I find myself making mental lists of what it would be nice to have (new furniture, high- speed internet, a dog crate), I’ve found it helpful to repeat a simplified version of verse seven to myself – “you can’t take it with you.”
Jeremiah 29:7 “And seek the peace of the city whither I have caused you to be carried away captives, and pray unto the Lord for it: for in the peace thereof shall ye have peace.”
A little background information first: Jeremiah is a prophet to the Israelites during their captivity in Babylon. In prior verses he was instructing them to build houses, plant gardens, and marry and raise families. So what verse seven is saying is . . . make the best of a challenging situation. And because the world we live in is often referred to as Babylon, we can follow Jeremiah’s advice too. I liked how he said, “pray unto the Lord for [peace].” I learned that contentment and peace are worth praying for.
At the end of verse six, Jeremiah gives an explanation of why it’s important for the Israelites to make the most of their challenging circumstances . . . “that ye may be increased there, and not diminished.” Can’t we say that about ourselves too? When we go about our lives in peace -- building houses, planting gardens, raising families – aren’t we increasing? But doing the same things in a spirit of discontent – keeping up with the Joneses or Jones-itis, as I like to call it –
causes us to feel diminished. And if we go into debt to feed our discontent, we can literally become diminished -- spiritually and financially bankrupt.
Alma 29:3,6 “... for I ought to be content with the things which the Lord hath allotted unto me.... Why should I desire more than to perform the work to which I have been called?”
Like Alma who wanted to cry repentance with angelic zeal, I too have some grandiose desires. Mine run along the lines of . . . write books to captivate and energize young readers. . . speak at EFY retreats and inspire youth to greatness . . . publish a book for women that helps them feel better about themselves. Those are the things that I dream of doing, but yard work, laundry, and running errands seem to eat all my time. Reading verse six, where it says, “Why should I desire more than to perform the work to which I have been called?” made me wonder if I’ve been called to do house work.
I decided to find out. First, I sat down with my patriarchal blessing and a sheet of paper. I read through my blessing and wrote down anything that it gave me instruction to do. Next I read through a journal where I write down spiritual impressions. I looked for instances where I felt like I’d received answer to prayer on what direction to take in my life. Finally, I compiled the two lists into one.
I won’t share the entire list of what I’m called to do, but here are some highlights:
bear children and be a content at-home mom
write about my experience with depression
serve my family
be a partner to my husband
be happy and cheerful
develop and enlarge my talents for my benefit, the benefit of my family, and the benefit of others.
As I read the entry “serve my family” I felt something. I think it was the Spirit trying to tell me that the things I do to serve my family, the things that seem to eat up all my time, are actually important. For just a moment, it’s as if I saw my daily tasks as the Lord sees them – necessary jobs that accompany raising his children.
Seeing things as the Lord sees them as helped me feel better about my life. I've begun to realize that the things I do as a mother to serve my family are part of my life’s calling, and instead of discounting them, thinking that they don’t count in the grand scheme of things, I need to recognize them for what they are and be content to perform the work – yes, even house work – that I’ve been called to do.
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1 Timothy 6:6-8 “But godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we carry nothing out. And having food and raiment let us be therewith content.”
In other words, don’t focus on material things. Be grateful for what you have. Having food and clothing is enough to be content with. In the food category, I enjoy Dannon Light ‘n Fit yogurt, crisp gala apples, crunchy carrot sticks with fat free ranch dip. And about raiment. Just this morning I realized that I get to wear my favorite clothes every day – jeans and tennis shoes.
When I find myself making mental lists of what it would be nice to have (new furniture, high- speed internet, a dog crate), I’ve found it helpful to repeat a simplified version of verse seven to myself – “you can’t take it with you.”
Jeremiah 29:7 “And seek the peace of the city whither I have caused you to be carried away captives, and pray unto the Lord for it: for in the peace thereof shall ye have peace.”
A little background information first: Jeremiah is a prophet to the Israelites during their captivity in Babylon. In prior verses he was instructing them to build houses, plant gardens, and marry and raise families. So what verse seven is saying is . . . make the best of a challenging situation. And because the world we live in is often referred to as Babylon, we can follow Jeremiah’s advice too. I liked how he said, “pray unto the Lord for [peace].” I learned that contentment and peace are worth praying for.
At the end of verse six, Jeremiah gives an explanation of why it’s important for the Israelites to make the most of their challenging circumstances . . . “that ye may be increased there, and not diminished.” Can’t we say that about ourselves too? When we go about our lives in peace -- building houses, planting gardens, raising families – aren’t we increasing? But doing the same things in a spirit of discontent – keeping up with the Joneses or Jones-itis, as I like to call it –
causes us to feel diminished. And if we go into debt to feed our discontent, we can literally become diminished -- spiritually and financially bankrupt.
Alma 29:3,6 “... for I ought to be content with the things which the Lord hath allotted unto me.... Why should I desire more than to perform the work to which I have been called?”
Like Alma who wanted to cry repentance with angelic zeal, I too have some grandiose desires. Mine run along the lines of . . . write books to captivate and energize young readers. . . speak at EFY retreats and inspire youth to greatness . . . publish a book for women that helps them feel better about themselves. Those are the things that I dream of doing, but yard work, laundry, and running errands seem to eat all my time. Reading verse six, where it says, “Why should I desire more than to perform the work to which I have been called?” made me wonder if I’ve been called to do house work.
I decided to find out. First, I sat down with my patriarchal blessing and a sheet of paper. I read through my blessing and wrote down anything that it gave me instruction to do. Next I read through a journal where I write down spiritual impressions. I looked for instances where I felt like I’d received answer to prayer on what direction to take in my life. Finally, I compiled the two lists into one.
I won’t share the entire list of what I’m called to do, but here are some highlights:
bear children and be a content at-home mom
write about my experience with depression
serve my family
be a partner to my husband
be happy and cheerful
develop and enlarge my talents for my benefit, the benefit of my family, and the benefit of others.
As I read the entry “serve my family” I felt something. I think it was the Spirit trying to tell me that the things I do to serve my family, the things that seem to eat up all my time, are actually important. For just a moment, it’s as if I saw my daily tasks as the Lord sees them – necessary jobs that accompany raising his children.
Seeing things as the Lord sees them as helped me feel better about my life. I've begun to realize that the things I do as a mother to serve my family are part of my life’s calling, and instead of discounting them, thinking that they don’t count in the grand scheme of things, I need to recognize them for what they are and be content to perform the work – yes, even house work – that I’ve been called to do.
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Friday, March 23, 2007
Patience Report #4 -- I Lost it
Ugh! Grrr! And *&#$*!! I lost it today. Just a few minutes ago, actually. Remind me why I wanted to try to be patient. Because apparently I’ve forgotten.
I suppose it started with the puppy. Lately when she’s been inside she hasn’t been behaving. I say, “Off!” (meaning keep off people, or off furniture) and “No bite!” but it doesn’t seem to phase her. She’s not allowed downstairs on her own, but at least three times a day she dashes down the stairs to make mischief exploring or peeing. It’s the peeing that really bothers me. I guess she thinks it’s far enough removed from where she usually spends her time that it qualifies as a good potty place. Wrong!
I think I could have kept control if I just had a puppy to deal with today, but I also have a boy home from school because it’s the end of the quarter. Something like that. And he’s been Mister Attitude this morning. I warned him that if he didn’t start talking to me with respect he’d have to find another place to stay today, that I’m not going to put up with his lip. My warning produced marginal results.
Prior to losing it, I went to retrieve the dog from the basement and noticed she’d made a puddle in my son’s room. Great. I clipped her leash to my belt loop and trudged back upstairs to get a towel and pet cleaner/deoderizer. Just as I started to clean up her puddle on the carpet, the phone rang. I asked Mr. Attitude to answer it. He didn’t. Meanwhile the puppy thinks that biting at the rag I’m using to clean up the puddle is a great game. As I head to answer the phone, the puppy nips at me. Trying to get the puppy from jumping on me, I answer the phone and cradle it between my cheek and shoulder. “Hello?” I say. “My friend just barely has time to get a complete sentence out before I accidentally cut her off trying to deal with my rambunctious puppy. And that’s when I lost it.
All the books I’ve been reading about puppy training say not to hit or yell at your puppy. I haven’t hit her, but she definitely got yelled at. She also got a scruff shake. She continued to bite at me and pick up a watch from the carpet that I’d told her to drop. I guess you could say that I gave her a loud lesson on the “No,” “Leave it,” and “Drop it” commands.
Since my meltdown Annie has been perfect. A little leery of me, but 100% obedient. At present she’s asleep on her mat by my chair, and I’m feeling guilty about my outburst. I’ve reminded my son again and again that Annie is a puppy, that her nipping and jumping are part of puppy play and that with patience and consistency she’ll learn to not bite and jump. He’s had a hard time being consistent when he interacts with Annie, and sometimes when I’ve been patiently re-shaping her behaviors he’ll say, “Just beat her.” Or if she whines a little when I’ve held her muzzle closed while calmly telling her “No bite,” he’ll say, “How do I get her to make that noise for me?”
So what do I do? I lose it with the dog in front of the very person who has his own issues of patience with the puppy. (How’s that for modeling appropriate behavior as the adult in the situation?)
Based on Annie’s response to my outburst, I’m guessing that my training has been a bit too light. A bit too cheery. A bit too fun and not enough firmness. My plan is to apologize to my son for losing it with the dog in front of him. Just now he’s gone with some neighborhood boys to pass out bags for the Scouting for Food Drive tomorrow. When he gets back I’ll explain to him what mistakes I’ve been making in Annie’s training and hopefully help him see that I’m committed to firm, calm, and consistent puppy training.
And parenting too. Ever since I’ve begun to pay attention to whether or not I’m being patient, my parenting has improved. For the most part I’ve done a better job of expressing my frustrations with the kids early on – before their behaviors have gotten under my skin and begin to drive me nuts.
I think part of my problem is that I expect too much from my kids. For example, I’ve been expecting Loula Belle to be able to take a shower when she needs to without my having to remind her. But yesterday when I was at my friend’s house, she said that her daughter that’s a year older than Loula Belle still needs near-constant reminding. “Every time I tell my daughter to take shower, she thinks she just took one the night before. It doesn’t matter if she hasn’t taken one in three days. I guess to her it feels like she just took one last night.”
I needed to hear that. Part of my problem is I get tired of nagging. I tell myself that I shouldn’t have to. That my kids should know by now what they need to be doing without being constantly reminded. But I guess that’s not a realistic expectation. Looks like I’ll have to take a page out of my mom’s book and make peace with nagging. She prefers to call it “spaced repetition.”
So I’m going to start thinking of nagging as spaced repetition. Instead of having unrealistic expectations of my kids, I’ll remind myself that they’re still growing up. Like my puppy, they’re just exhibiting common behavior for their age. And like puppy training, my kids need firm, calm, and consistent training too.
--------------------
How do you cool off when you’re about to lose it? I know I can’t be the only mom to blow her top. Please share your tips on how to maintaining composure during stressful flare-ups.
I suppose it started with the puppy. Lately when she’s been inside she hasn’t been behaving. I say, “Off!” (meaning keep off people, or off furniture) and “No bite!” but it doesn’t seem to phase her. She’s not allowed downstairs on her own, but at least three times a day she dashes down the stairs to make mischief exploring or peeing. It’s the peeing that really bothers me. I guess she thinks it’s far enough removed from where she usually spends her time that it qualifies as a good potty place. Wrong!
I think I could have kept control if I just had a puppy to deal with today, but I also have a boy home from school because it’s the end of the quarter. Something like that. And he’s been Mister Attitude this morning. I warned him that if he didn’t start talking to me with respect he’d have to find another place to stay today, that I’m not going to put up with his lip. My warning produced marginal results.
Prior to losing it, I went to retrieve the dog from the basement and noticed she’d made a puddle in my son’s room. Great. I clipped her leash to my belt loop and trudged back upstairs to get a towel and pet cleaner/deoderizer. Just as I started to clean up her puddle on the carpet, the phone rang. I asked Mr. Attitude to answer it. He didn’t. Meanwhile the puppy thinks that biting at the rag I’m using to clean up the puddle is a great game. As I head to answer the phone, the puppy nips at me. Trying to get the puppy from jumping on me, I answer the phone and cradle it between my cheek and shoulder. “Hello?” I say. “My friend just barely has time to get a complete sentence out before I accidentally cut her off trying to deal with my rambunctious puppy. And that’s when I lost it.
All the books I’ve been reading about puppy training say not to hit or yell at your puppy. I haven’t hit her, but she definitely got yelled at. She also got a scruff shake. She continued to bite at me and pick up a watch from the carpet that I’d told her to drop. I guess you could say that I gave her a loud lesson on the “No,” “Leave it,” and “Drop it” commands.
Since my meltdown Annie has been perfect. A little leery of me, but 100% obedient. At present she’s asleep on her mat by my chair, and I’m feeling guilty about my outburst. I’ve reminded my son again and again that Annie is a puppy, that her nipping and jumping are part of puppy play and that with patience and consistency she’ll learn to not bite and jump. He’s had a hard time being consistent when he interacts with Annie, and sometimes when I’ve been patiently re-shaping her behaviors he’ll say, “Just beat her.” Or if she whines a little when I’ve held her muzzle closed while calmly telling her “No bite,” he’ll say, “How do I get her to make that noise for me?”
So what do I do? I lose it with the dog in front of the very person who has his own issues of patience with the puppy. (How’s that for modeling appropriate behavior as the adult in the situation?)
Based on Annie’s response to my outburst, I’m guessing that my training has been a bit too light. A bit too cheery. A bit too fun and not enough firmness. My plan is to apologize to my son for losing it with the dog in front of him. Just now he’s gone with some neighborhood boys to pass out bags for the Scouting for Food Drive tomorrow. When he gets back I’ll explain to him what mistakes I’ve been making in Annie’s training and hopefully help him see that I’m committed to firm, calm, and consistent puppy training.
And parenting too. Ever since I’ve begun to pay attention to whether or not I’m being patient, my parenting has improved. For the most part I’ve done a better job of expressing my frustrations with the kids early on – before their behaviors have gotten under my skin and begin to drive me nuts.
I think part of my problem is that I expect too much from my kids. For example, I’ve been expecting Loula Belle to be able to take a shower when she needs to without my having to remind her. But yesterday when I was at my friend’s house, she said that her daughter that’s a year older than Loula Belle still needs near-constant reminding. “Every time I tell my daughter to take shower, she thinks she just took one the night before. It doesn’t matter if she hasn’t taken one in three days. I guess to her it feels like she just took one last night.”
I needed to hear that. Part of my problem is I get tired of nagging. I tell myself that I shouldn’t have to. That my kids should know by now what they need to be doing without being constantly reminded. But I guess that’s not a realistic expectation. Looks like I’ll have to take a page out of my mom’s book and make peace with nagging. She prefers to call it “spaced repetition.”
So I’m going to start thinking of nagging as spaced repetition. Instead of having unrealistic expectations of my kids, I’ll remind myself that they’re still growing up. Like my puppy, they’re just exhibiting common behavior for their age. And like puppy training, my kids need firm, calm, and consistent training too.
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How do you cool off when you’re about to lose it? I know I can’t be the only mom to blow her top. Please share your tips on how to maintaining composure during stressful flare-ups.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
In Search of Contentment
I don’t know about you, but I have a problem feeling content. And I’m beginning to think that it’s part of our American culture. We hear again and again about the American dream. Own a home. Start a new and successful company. Climb the corporate ladder. Be at the top of your class. Focus on productivity. Be all that you can be.
I’ve lived my entire life striving for perfection -- reaching for the American dream. I was the valedictorian of my high school class, one of the top three English graduates in 1994 when I graduated from college. Because I’ve chosen a career as a family manager, I often wonder if I’m doing enough, being enough. I tell myself that I should have a successful writing career in addition to my job as an at home mom. And I often berate myself about my homemaking skills. Because all my children are in school, I should have spotless mirrors, vacuum lines across the
carpet, clean windows, and perfectly prepared and balanced dinners every night. Sigh.
In my quest for a happier life, I’m getting professional counseling. My therapist has pointed out that I’ll feel happier if I can appreciate what I have. Keeping a gratitude journal is one way to acknowledge the haves instead of the have-nots. Another thing I’m trying to do is to acknowledge my pampered lifestyle.
Take this morning, for instance. I’m not sure why, but I was in the mood to listen to opera as I got ready for the day. “The Worlds Greatest Arias” played as I showered and put on makeup. I began thinking about Mozart and the royals who could afford to have him perform for them. That’s when I realized that, hey, Mozart plays for me any time I want him to. Sure, it may be a CD recording, but digital technology is probably as good or better than what some listeners heard at a live performance hundreds of years ago.
I’m a big fan of books and movies like, Emma, Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, Wurthering Heights . . . you get the idea. I’ve imagined what it must be like to have nothing to occupy my time except making social calls, sketching, riding horses, preparing menus for the staff to prepare, attending balls. I’ve even gone so far as to put myself as the heroine in the setting of my favorite books and movies. Coming back to the realities of my own hum-drum life always seems anti-climatic.
When moments like this morning happen, however, I’m amazed to realize that my life is as pampered as the lives of my favorite heroines – maybe even more so. For example, I enjoy central heating. I also have a large jacuzzi tub with lumbar jets. When I get the whim to soak in the bath, I don’t have to summon servants to heat water and fill my tub. I simply turn a knob. Two water heaters in my basement are my servants. Very efficient servants, I might add.
This fall my dad took me and my brothers hunting at a local pheasant farm. We trudged through the frost-covered fields as his dog locked onto the scent of a pheasant hiding in the underbrush. Up flew a large rooster. We raised our guns and locked onto the bird. Boom! Boom! It fell to the ground. And for some reason my mind flashed to a scene from Pride and Prejudice (the six-hour version) of Mr. Darcy hunting as his servants pounded the undergrowth with sticks to flush
up game fowl.
I remember thinking, “I’m more spoiled than Mr. Darcy.” I hadn’t even paid for the privilege of shooting the day’s game, my dad treated us. I even used one of his guns. And we’d arrived for the hunt in style -- a club cab 4x4 pick-up truck with power windows, heating, and satellite radio. As the other hunters spread out along the ditch bank, I began to contemplate the ways in which my upbringing was perhaps more privileged than Elizabeth Bennett’s.
For starters, I got to go hunting with the men. I bet Elizabeth didn’t. Our family had horses and 10 acres of land – probably less acreage than the Bennetts, but still a large estate by today’s standards. We may not have had carriages, but we owned both a car and a truck. And although I never spent the summer in London, I did travel to Centerville most summers to spend a week of fun and sun with my cousins. We also took trips to National Parks, hiked into the Wind River wilderness, and played at Disneyland. They didn’t even have amusement parks in Elizabeth Bennett’s day. What does that say about the time in which we live?
My counselor advised me to adopt the following motto:
Use it up,
Wear it out,
Make do
Or do without.
I can’t say that I follow it perfectly yet, but I’m beginning to see its benefits. When I’m not trying to remind myself what I want to buy next (furniture, a new computer, a new bed spread), I’m more at peace. Using what I have instead of acquiring more frees up a lot of time. Time to spend reading instead of shopping. Time to spend with friends instead of poring over glossy mail order catalogs. Time to spend laughing at comics with my kids instead of trolling the aisles of Wal-Mart listening to them whine for treats.
Contentment remains elusive. I’m not there yet, but I can see it on the horizon.
I’ve lived my entire life striving for perfection -- reaching for the American dream. I was the valedictorian of my high school class, one of the top three English graduates in 1994 when I graduated from college. Because I’ve chosen a career as a family manager, I often wonder if I’m doing enough, being enough. I tell myself that I should have a successful writing career in addition to my job as an at home mom. And I often berate myself about my homemaking skills. Because all my children are in school, I should have spotless mirrors, vacuum lines across the
carpet, clean windows, and perfectly prepared and balanced dinners every night. Sigh.
In my quest for a happier life, I’m getting professional counseling. My therapist has pointed out that I’ll feel happier if I can appreciate what I have. Keeping a gratitude journal is one way to acknowledge the haves instead of the have-nots. Another thing I’m trying to do is to acknowledge my pampered lifestyle.
Take this morning, for instance. I’m not sure why, but I was in the mood to listen to opera as I got ready for the day. “The Worlds Greatest Arias” played as I showered and put on makeup. I began thinking about Mozart and the royals who could afford to have him perform for them. That’s when I realized that, hey, Mozart plays for me any time I want him to. Sure, it may be a CD recording, but digital technology is probably as good or better than what some listeners heard at a live performance hundreds of years ago.
I’m a big fan of books and movies like, Emma, Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, Wurthering Heights . . . you get the idea. I’ve imagined what it must be like to have nothing to occupy my time except making social calls, sketching, riding horses, preparing menus for the staff to prepare, attending balls. I’ve even gone so far as to put myself as the heroine in the setting of my favorite books and movies. Coming back to the realities of my own hum-drum life always seems anti-climatic.
When moments like this morning happen, however, I’m amazed to realize that my life is as pampered as the lives of my favorite heroines – maybe even more so. For example, I enjoy central heating. I also have a large jacuzzi tub with lumbar jets. When I get the whim to soak in the bath, I don’t have to summon servants to heat water and fill my tub. I simply turn a knob. Two water heaters in my basement are my servants. Very efficient servants, I might add.
This fall my dad took me and my brothers hunting at a local pheasant farm. We trudged through the frost-covered fields as his dog locked onto the scent of a pheasant hiding in the underbrush. Up flew a large rooster. We raised our guns and locked onto the bird. Boom! Boom! It fell to the ground. And for some reason my mind flashed to a scene from Pride and Prejudice (the six-hour version) of Mr. Darcy hunting as his servants pounded the undergrowth with sticks to flush
up game fowl.
I remember thinking, “I’m more spoiled than Mr. Darcy.” I hadn’t even paid for the privilege of shooting the day’s game, my dad treated us. I even used one of his guns. And we’d arrived for the hunt in style -- a club cab 4x4 pick-up truck with power windows, heating, and satellite radio. As the other hunters spread out along the ditch bank, I began to contemplate the ways in which my upbringing was perhaps more privileged than Elizabeth Bennett’s.
For starters, I got to go hunting with the men. I bet Elizabeth didn’t. Our family had horses and 10 acres of land – probably less acreage than the Bennetts, but still a large estate by today’s standards. We may not have had carriages, but we owned both a car and a truck. And although I never spent the summer in London, I did travel to Centerville most summers to spend a week of fun and sun with my cousins. We also took trips to National Parks, hiked into the Wind River wilderness, and played at Disneyland. They didn’t even have amusement parks in Elizabeth Bennett’s day. What does that say about the time in which we live?
My counselor advised me to adopt the following motto:
Use it up,
Wear it out,
Make do
Or do without.
I can’t say that I follow it perfectly yet, but I’m beginning to see its benefits. When I’m not trying to remind myself what I want to buy next (furniture, a new computer, a new bed spread), I’m more at peace. Using what I have instead of acquiring more frees up a lot of time. Time to spend reading instead of shopping. Time to spend with friends instead of poring over glossy mail order catalogs. Time to spend laughing at comics with my kids instead of trolling the aisles of Wal-Mart listening to them whine for treats.
Contentment remains elusive. I’m not there yet, but I can see it on the horizon.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
How to be in Two Places at Once (chicken e-mail)
Dear Pearl,
I’m sorry to get your hopes up with that subject line, but there really is no possible way to be in two places at once. You’ll just have to chose between tonight’s multitudinous options. You can:
1. Take Landon to Dr. Seuss night at the elementary school.
2. Play in the church basketball game for hens. (By the way, you got your feathers ruffled a bit last time. Maybe this would be a good one to skip tonight.)
3. Attend the informative and important talk for parents sponsored by the PTA (poultry teacher association) and health department -- “Sex has a price tag.” I’ll understand if you can’t make it to this evening that I’ve spent months and months organizing and fretting over, but if there really were a contraption to make it possible to be in two places at once, the talk is a don’t-miss kind of thing. I mean, your little brood faces all sorts of things in the intimacy department that we were sheltered from. Those little chicks will be hens and roosters before you know it.
Oh, speaking of the talk, thanks for letting me know that the word is getting out. After I heard that the presiding rooster of a regional church meeting announced it over the pulpit I crowed for joy! We might actually have more than 30 parents there tonight! Whew!
(Note: Bug wondered if the religious rooster mentioned the actual title of the talk– “Sex has a price tag.” He asked, “Do you think he said the ‘S’ word?” Beans was shocked, “You mean he said the word that starts with “sh” in a church meeting?! We assured her that the word she was thinking of surely was NOT said in church. Wish I knew about the word from the title. I can just imagine how that would go over. Giggle.)
In other news, there is no other news. I am finally getting things cleaned up around the coop now that I’m getting adjusted to having a puppy here at the farm. She’s a handful! If she goes wee-wee in the coop one more time I think I’ll spit. (By the way, that’s the first time I’ve ever pecked out “wee-wee” on the computer. It made me giggle. There, I did it again.)
Good luck with tonight’s busy schedule. Too bad your husband has interviews scheduled at the church. It really must be challenging to be the bishop’s wife. Pearl, you’re a saint!
Scratch with you later, Queenie
I’m sorry to get your hopes up with that subject line, but there really is no possible way to be in two places at once. You’ll just have to chose between tonight’s multitudinous options. You can:
1. Take Landon to Dr. Seuss night at the elementary school.
2. Play in the church basketball game for hens. (By the way, you got your feathers ruffled a bit last time. Maybe this would be a good one to skip tonight.)
3. Attend the informative and important talk for parents sponsored by the PTA (poultry teacher association) and health department -- “Sex has a price tag.” I’ll understand if you can’t make it to this evening that I’ve spent months and months organizing and fretting over, but if there really were a contraption to make it possible to be in two places at once, the talk is a don’t-miss kind of thing. I mean, your little brood faces all sorts of things in the intimacy department that we were sheltered from. Those little chicks will be hens and roosters before you know it.
Oh, speaking of the talk, thanks for letting me know that the word is getting out. After I heard that the presiding rooster of a regional church meeting announced it over the pulpit I crowed for joy! We might actually have more than 30 parents there tonight! Whew!
(Note: Bug wondered if the religious rooster mentioned the actual title of the talk– “Sex has a price tag.” He asked, “Do you think he said the ‘S’ word?” Beans was shocked, “You mean he said the word that starts with “sh” in a church meeting?! We assured her that the word she was thinking of surely was NOT said in church. Wish I knew about the word from the title. I can just imagine how that would go over. Giggle.)
In other news, there is no other news. I am finally getting things cleaned up around the coop now that I’m getting adjusted to having a puppy here at the farm. She’s a handful! If she goes wee-wee in the coop one more time I think I’ll spit. (By the way, that’s the first time I’ve ever pecked out “wee-wee” on the computer. It made me giggle. There, I did it again.)
Good luck with tonight’s busy schedule. Too bad your husband has interviews scheduled at the church. It really must be challenging to be the bishop’s wife. Pearl, you’re a saint!
Scratch with you later, Queenie
Monday, February 26, 2007
Patience Report #3: The Battle of the Bulge
Now that I’m getting a handle on being patient with my family members, my body decided to throw me a curve. Or love handles, as the case may be.
Just over a year ago I joined Weight Watchers and began losing weight. (See my entry from Oct. 11, 2006 which chronicles my weight over my lifetime.) At first the pounds came off with regularity, but I’ve been stuck since I wrote that entry in October. In an effort to stay motivated I graphed my weight loss and put it on the fridge. But after a four month plateau period, watching the line go up and down, up and down, up and up, down again -- the graph became a reminder of my lack of success. I began to doubt that I’d ever reach my weight loss goal.
My attitude with weight loss has been anything but patient. I want to lose weight, and I want it to happen NOW! But my body has other plans. My outlook keeps fluctuating between determination and resignation. If not for attending the Weight Watcher meetings and hearing about other members’ struggles and successes, I’d probably have thrown in the towel.
This week’s meeting addressed the need for positive thinking, and not falling victim to perfectionist thinking. My own perfectionist thoughts run something like this:
I’ve blown it today, I might as well enjoy a week off from dieting. It’s my fault that the pounds aren’t coming off. I must not be exercising enough. If I’ve overeaten at breakfast, I might as well take the rest of the day off. If I can’t be perfect, I might as well give up.
How’s that for patience?
One quote that our leader had written on the board really hit home. And seeing how Winston Churchill and I have both fought the Battle of the Bulge, I can relate.
"Don’t let perfectionist thinking hold you back from what you want most. The maxim, ‘Nothing avails but perfection,’ may be spelled ‘paralysis’." – Winston Churchill
So now I’m trying to recognize when I’m being too demanding of myself, and I’m trying to anticipate my tendencies toward negative self-talk.
A few weeks ago I went shopping for a pair of jeans. I’d been putting off the purchase until I’d lost enough weight to wear the next pant size down from my current pair. Imagine my surprise when I found that I could wear a size 12. A size 12!! I haven’t been able to zip up a size twelve since I started having children over thirteen years ago.
A man at one of our Weight Watchers meetings said that when he’s feeling discouraged he goes into his closet and tries on the pair of pants he wore when he first joined Weight Watchers. Hearing him, I felt a little sad that I hadn’t kept some of my original "fat" pants. As I lost weight, I gave all my too-big clothes away as extra incentive to keep the pounds off.
Just yesterday I realized that there was one pair of "fat" pants that I hadn’t given away. They’d gotten a hole in them so I’d tossed them into my scrap denim pile. This morning I pulled them out, took them to my Weight Watchers meeting and had the class celebrate my new pant size with me.
So the scale still says I weigh 168 lbs. So what! I’ve come to know that all the exercise and weight training I’ve been doing in my aerobics classes have changed my body composition. Muscle weighs more than fat, and my size 12 jeans prove it!
Just over a year ago I joined Weight Watchers and began losing weight. (See my entry from Oct. 11, 2006 which chronicles my weight over my lifetime.) At first the pounds came off with regularity, but I’ve been stuck since I wrote that entry in October. In an effort to stay motivated I graphed my weight loss and put it on the fridge. But after a four month plateau period, watching the line go up and down, up and down, up and up, down again -- the graph became a reminder of my lack of success. I began to doubt that I’d ever reach my weight loss goal.
My attitude with weight loss has been anything but patient. I want to lose weight, and I want it to happen NOW! But my body has other plans. My outlook keeps fluctuating between determination and resignation. If not for attending the Weight Watcher meetings and hearing about other members’ struggles and successes, I’d probably have thrown in the towel.
This week’s meeting addressed the need for positive thinking, and not falling victim to perfectionist thinking. My own perfectionist thoughts run something like this:
I’ve blown it today, I might as well enjoy a week off from dieting. It’s my fault that the pounds aren’t coming off. I must not be exercising enough. If I’ve overeaten at breakfast, I might as well take the rest of the day off. If I can’t be perfect, I might as well give up.
How’s that for patience?
One quote that our leader had written on the board really hit home. And seeing how Winston Churchill and I have both fought the Battle of the Bulge, I can relate.
"Don’t let perfectionist thinking hold you back from what you want most. The maxim, ‘Nothing avails but perfection,’ may be spelled ‘paralysis’." – Winston Churchill
So now I’m trying to recognize when I’m being too demanding of myself, and I’m trying to anticipate my tendencies toward negative self-talk.
A few weeks ago I went shopping for a pair of jeans. I’d been putting off the purchase until I’d lost enough weight to wear the next pant size down from my current pair. Imagine my surprise when I found that I could wear a size 12. A size 12!! I haven’t been able to zip up a size twelve since I started having children over thirteen years ago.
A man at one of our Weight Watchers meetings said that when he’s feeling discouraged he goes into his closet and tries on the pair of pants he wore when he first joined Weight Watchers. Hearing him, I felt a little sad that I hadn’t kept some of my original "fat" pants. As I lost weight, I gave all my too-big clothes away as extra incentive to keep the pounds off.
Just yesterday I realized that there was one pair of "fat" pants that I hadn’t given away. They’d gotten a hole in them so I’d tossed them into my scrap denim pile. This morning I pulled them out, took them to my Weight Watchers meeting and had the class celebrate my new pant size with me.
So the scale still says I weigh 168 lbs. So what! I’ve come to know that all the exercise and weight training I’ve been doing in my aerobics classes have changed my body composition. Muscle weighs more than fat, and my size 12 jeans prove it!
Friday, February 23, 2007
"I Love You More . . ."
Note: This essay is included in the newest book from Chicken Soup for the Soul – "Chicken Soup for the Mother and Daughter’s Soul" that will be in bookstores in March of 2007. I’m excited and really feel grateful that my daughter gave me a glimpse of perfect love back in the fall of 2000. – Christie
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Meet my daughter, Loula Belle. Four years old and a fount of knowledge. The other day she was reciting a list of all the facts and tidbits she has memorized. One plus one is two. If you mix yellow paint with blue you get green. Penguins can’t fly. . . . On and on she went.
Finally, she finished. "Mom," she said, looking very smug, "I know everything."
I let on as if I believed her, but chuckled to myself thinking of all the this and thats that a four-year-old child couldn’t possible know. Comparing her four years to my almost three decades of life experiences, I felt sure I knew what she knew and then some.
Within a week, I’d learn I was wrong.
It all began as we were standing in front of the bathroom mirror, me fixing Amanda’s fine, blonde hair. I was putting in the final elastic of a spunky pair of pony tails and finished with, "I love you, Lou."
"And, I love you," she replied.
"Oh, yeah," I taunted, "well I love you more."
Her eyes lit up as she recognized the cue for the start of another "I love you more" match. "Nuh-uh," she laughed, "I love you the most."
"I love you bigger than a volcano!" I countered – a favorite family phrase in these battles of love.
"But mom, I love you from here to China." A country she’s learning about thanks to our new neighbors up the street.
We volleyed back and forth a few favorite lines. I love you more than peanut butter. . . . Well, I love you more than television. . . . I even love you more than bubble gum.
It was my turn again, and I made the move that usually brings victory. "Too bad chickadee. I love you bigger than the universe!" On this day, however, Loula Belle was not going to give up. I could see she was thinking.
"Mom," she said in a quiet voice, "I love you more than myself."
I stopped. Dumbfounded. Overwhelmed by her sincerity.
Here I thought that I knew more than she did. I thought I knew at least everything that she knew. But I didn’t know this.
My four-year-old daughter knows more about love than her twenty-eight-year-old mom. And somehow she loves me more than herself.
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Meet my daughter, Loula Belle. Four years old and a fount of knowledge. The other day she was reciting a list of all the facts and tidbits she has memorized. One plus one is two. If you mix yellow paint with blue you get green. Penguins can’t fly. . . . On and on she went.
Finally, she finished. "Mom," she said, looking very smug, "I know everything."
I let on as if I believed her, but chuckled to myself thinking of all the this and thats that a four-year-old child couldn’t possible know. Comparing her four years to my almost three decades of life experiences, I felt sure I knew what she knew and then some.
Within a week, I’d learn I was wrong.
It all began as we were standing in front of the bathroom mirror, me fixing Amanda’s fine, blonde hair. I was putting in the final elastic of a spunky pair of pony tails and finished with, "I love you, Lou."
"And, I love you," she replied.
"Oh, yeah," I taunted, "well I love you more."
Her eyes lit up as she recognized the cue for the start of another "I love you more" match. "Nuh-uh," she laughed, "I love you the most."
"I love you bigger than a volcano!" I countered – a favorite family phrase in these battles of love.
"But mom, I love you from here to China." A country she’s learning about thanks to our new neighbors up the street.
We volleyed back and forth a few favorite lines. I love you more than peanut butter. . . . Well, I love you more than television. . . . I even love you more than bubble gum.
It was my turn again, and I made the move that usually brings victory. "Too bad chickadee. I love you bigger than the universe!" On this day, however, Loula Belle was not going to give up. I could see she was thinking.
"Mom," she said in a quiet voice, "I love you more than myself."
I stopped. Dumbfounded. Overwhelmed by her sincerity.
Here I thought that I knew more than she did. I thought I knew at least everything that she knew. But I didn’t know this.
My four-year-old daughter knows more about love than her twenty-eight-year-old mom. And somehow she loves me more than herself.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Queenie's Ski Report
Don’t look now, but I went skiing yesterday. And like Thursday, it was a rush! I was visiting with Marge Seeholtzer, one of the owners of Beaver Mountain, the resort where I have my season pass. I was explaining how I’d returned to skiing after a 14 year absence. "I’m like a lost sheep that’s come back to the fold," I told her. Of course that’s not true. I’m a chicken.
But skiing again feels wonderful! On both Thursday and yesterday as I was shooshing over the freshly fallen snow, I couldn’t help but let out a loud series of whoops. "Whoooo-eeeee! Yeee-haaa!" I felt like breaking into song, but no suitable songs came to mind. I informed my friends that I was skiing with that I’m a gusher. Whatever I’m feeling is going to gush right out my mouth. "Wheeee!"
At one point on Thursday as the wind was sending snow off the pines and the sun was filtering through the aspens, I felt as if I were in a Velamints commercials – the one where a woman puts a mint in her mouth against the backdrop of a gorgeous winter landscape. Everywhere I looked it was beautiful! And on some runs I was enveloped in the fresh smell of pine trees. The experience was beyond wonderful!
Part of the fun yesterday was getting to spend time skiing with my daughter, Loula Belle. Four fifth grade classes from her school came up to ski, and after they were done with ski instruction, I skied a few runs with Lou and her friends. I was pleased to find that she’s becoming a fine skier. I was also able to report to Rusty, the safety rooster, that she seemed to know her limits and didn’t shoot straight down the runs like one of her friends did. Whew!
Yesterday I skied the last runs of the day with a neighbor, Julie. She too was returning to skiing after a long absence. She used to ski a lot before she was married and had kids, but the realities of caring for a young family put skiing beyond her financial reach. Boy could I relate. But like so many stages in life, it came to pass.
I love that phrase, "it came to pass." It’s a frequent phrase in the Book of Mormon, and every time I read it I like to remind myself that it applies to my life. Nothing comes to stay. Everything comes to pass.
Whenever I’m struggling with something, I remind myself that it too will come to pass. Same thing applies to the good things in life. They come to pass too. So I might as well enjoy them now, savor each joy, live in the moment because they’re precious and fleeting.
Life, like a day skiing, has highs. Beauty. Even bliss. But it also has valleys and lows. I’d say that I’ve done a pretty good job learning from the lows in my life. I’m betting there are similar lessons to be learned from life’s highs. Because I spend so much time and energy scheduling, planning and crossing things off my to-do list, sometimes I forget to live in the present.
I’m going to let skiing remind me to work on that – to live in the present.
But skiing again feels wonderful! On both Thursday and yesterday as I was shooshing over the freshly fallen snow, I couldn’t help but let out a loud series of whoops. "Whoooo-eeeee! Yeee-haaa!" I felt like breaking into song, but no suitable songs came to mind. I informed my friends that I was skiing with that I’m a gusher. Whatever I’m feeling is going to gush right out my mouth. "Wheeee!"
At one point on Thursday as the wind was sending snow off the pines and the sun was filtering through the aspens, I felt as if I were in a Velamints commercials – the one where a woman puts a mint in her mouth against the backdrop of a gorgeous winter landscape. Everywhere I looked it was beautiful! And on some runs I was enveloped in the fresh smell of pine trees. The experience was beyond wonderful!
Part of the fun yesterday was getting to spend time skiing with my daughter, Loula Belle. Four fifth grade classes from her school came up to ski, and after they were done with ski instruction, I skied a few runs with Lou and her friends. I was pleased to find that she’s becoming a fine skier. I was also able to report to Rusty, the safety rooster, that she seemed to know her limits and didn’t shoot straight down the runs like one of her friends did. Whew!
Yesterday I skied the last runs of the day with a neighbor, Julie. She too was returning to skiing after a long absence. She used to ski a lot before she was married and had kids, but the realities of caring for a young family put skiing beyond her financial reach. Boy could I relate. But like so many stages in life, it came to pass.
I love that phrase, "it came to pass." It’s a frequent phrase in the Book of Mormon, and every time I read it I like to remind myself that it applies to my life. Nothing comes to stay. Everything comes to pass.
Whenever I’m struggling with something, I remind myself that it too will come to pass. Same thing applies to the good things in life. They come to pass too. So I might as well enjoy them now, savor each joy, live in the moment because they’re precious and fleeting.
Life, like a day skiing, has highs. Beauty. Even bliss. But it also has valleys and lows. I’d say that I’ve done a pretty good job learning from the lows in my life. I’m betting there are similar lessons to be learned from life’s highs. Because I spend so much time and energy scheduling, planning and crossing things off my to-do list, sometimes I forget to live in the present.
I’m going to let skiing remind me to work on that – to live in the present.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Mother Hen Hits the Slopes . . .
Just for a minute I want you to picture a mother hen on skis. She’s a bit nervous, feels a little out of her element surrounded by snow covered slopes and ski lifts. And she’s only been skiing once in the last fourteen years. The skis look huge compared to her feathered frame, but she’s smiling.
That’s me! I’m going up skiing with some friends today. We’ll leave here in about 20 minutes and spend about 45 minutes driving up the canyon to the ski resort. And while I’m looking forward to bonding with friends, I’m feeling a bit chicken about hitting the slopes. I’m guessing it’s because I tore a knee ligament skiing in high school, and it wasn’t all that hard to do. It was just one of the four times I’ve had knee surgery on my left knee. Which reminds me . . . I almost forgot to pack my knee brace. I’d better go get it.
In light of my nerves, I’m going to spend the day focusing on the things I love about skiing – the mountains, the beauty of the canyon in winter, the sound of wind through pine trees, and spending time with friends. I’d be lying if I didn’t also admit that skiing in and of itself is also a rush. There’s something energizing about making turns over snow and feeling it slide beneath your skis. I’m hoping that my recent activity at the gym has prepared my muscles for the rigor they’ll face today. I’ll let you know.
As we say in our family: "See you. Love you. Bye!"
That’s me! I’m going up skiing with some friends today. We’ll leave here in about 20 minutes and spend about 45 minutes driving up the canyon to the ski resort. And while I’m looking forward to bonding with friends, I’m feeling a bit chicken about hitting the slopes. I’m guessing it’s because I tore a knee ligament skiing in high school, and it wasn’t all that hard to do. It was just one of the four times I’ve had knee surgery on my left knee. Which reminds me . . . I almost forgot to pack my knee brace. I’d better go get it.
In light of my nerves, I’m going to spend the day focusing on the things I love about skiing – the mountains, the beauty of the canyon in winter, the sound of wind through pine trees, and spending time with friends. I’d be lying if I didn’t also admit that skiing in and of itself is also a rush. There’s something energizing about making turns over snow and feeling it slide beneath your skis. I’m hoping that my recent activity at the gym has prepared my muscles for the rigor they’ll face today. I’ll let you know.
As we say in our family: "See you. Love you. Bye!"
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
We're All a Bunch of Chickens!
Don’t look now, but Belly Acre Farm is going fowl. As in chickens.
As a writing tool to help me with my upcoming children’s book, I’ll occasionally be converting all the members of my family into chickens. Okay, not real chickens, but I’ll refer to us as chickens in this blog. Some of my friends and neighbors will be barnyard animals as well. (Let me know if you have any personal preferences as to your breed and name. Maybe you’d make a fine bovine. Or how about an old goat?)
For starters, let me introduce our family members.
Our leading male is Rusty the rooster. (a.k.a. Safety Rooster) He’s often away from the coop working hard to help other animals stay safe and follow all the rules. He’s hard-working, dedicated, and quite serious. He does, however, have a killer racquetball serve.
Then there’s me. I’m Mother Hen. You can call me Queenie. (I love bees and have always wanted to be a queen bee. This is my big chance.) I spend most days on the farm tidying up the pig sties and preparing chicken scratch for dinner. Sometimes I get peckish, but most days I’d describe my mood as sunny side up. I dream of becoming a successful writer. Maybe even have a story printed up in Better Coops and Pig Sties. You never know.
Next is Bug. He’s a rooster in training and just started into the teen years. He eats, sleeps and breathes basketball. He even made a custom set of glasses with cardboard blinders across the bottom of the frame to block the view of his wings while he’s dribbling the ball. His uncle in med. school told him that chickens grow while they sleep. He dreams of being 6 foot 2 inches, so he tries to hit the hay early. Bug is focused and motivated, but is often discouraged and bossy. He’s a work in progress, but we’re sure he’ll achieve greatness.
Loula Belle is a young chick of 10 years old. We call her Lou for short. Yesterday I went with her to a maturation clinic for fifth grade girls. Can she really be growing up and trading in her downy yellow fluff for training feathers? I guess that would explain her recent mood swings. But I’m not too worried. She’s an easy-going social butterfly. School and sports come easy for her. I like watching her strut her stuff.
Last of all we have Beans. Dear little Beans. She’s all of eight years old and as sweet as strawberry pie. You’ll never meet a kinder, more giving chick than Beans. She enjoys drawing and writing, and loves playing with our farm cat, Oreo. But watch out! Just when you least expect it, Beans can really let ‘er rip. P-U! (Her cute little giggle usually precedes the smell. Almost makes the toot worth it.)
That’s us. Be sure to tune in regularly to see what we’re up to. You can never tell when things will get interesting.
As a writing tool to help me with my upcoming children’s book, I’ll occasionally be converting all the members of my family into chickens. Okay, not real chickens, but I’ll refer to us as chickens in this blog. Some of my friends and neighbors will be barnyard animals as well. (Let me know if you have any personal preferences as to your breed and name. Maybe you’d make a fine bovine. Or how about an old goat?)
For starters, let me introduce our family members.
Our leading male is Rusty the rooster. (a.k.a. Safety Rooster) He’s often away from the coop working hard to help other animals stay safe and follow all the rules. He’s hard-working, dedicated, and quite serious. He does, however, have a killer racquetball serve.
Then there’s me. I’m Mother Hen. You can call me Queenie. (I love bees and have always wanted to be a queen bee. This is my big chance.) I spend most days on the farm tidying up the pig sties and preparing chicken scratch for dinner. Sometimes I get peckish, but most days I’d describe my mood as sunny side up. I dream of becoming a successful writer. Maybe even have a story printed up in Better Coops and Pig Sties. You never know.
Next is Bug. He’s a rooster in training and just started into the teen years. He eats, sleeps and breathes basketball. He even made a custom set of glasses with cardboard blinders across the bottom of the frame to block the view of his wings while he’s dribbling the ball. His uncle in med. school told him that chickens grow while they sleep. He dreams of being 6 foot 2 inches, so he tries to hit the hay early. Bug is focused and motivated, but is often discouraged and bossy. He’s a work in progress, but we’re sure he’ll achieve greatness.
Loula Belle is a young chick of 10 years old. We call her Lou for short. Yesterday I went with her to a maturation clinic for fifth grade girls. Can she really be growing up and trading in her downy yellow fluff for training feathers? I guess that would explain her recent mood swings. But I’m not too worried. She’s an easy-going social butterfly. School and sports come easy for her. I like watching her strut her stuff.
Last of all we have Beans. Dear little Beans. She’s all of eight years old and as sweet as strawberry pie. You’ll never meet a kinder, more giving chick than Beans. She enjoys drawing and writing, and loves playing with our farm cat, Oreo. But watch out! Just when you least expect it, Beans can really let ‘er rip. P-U! (Her cute little giggle usually precedes the smell. Almost makes the toot worth it.)
That’s us. Be sure to tune in regularly to see what we’re up to. You can never tell when things will get interesting.
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