Parentis Incompetus

Need An Oil Change?

2012-01-11T19:52:00.000-08:00

Then allow me to recommend the Jiffy Lube in Draper.

Homeland Security

2012-01-06T21:05:00.000-08:00

Brooks just got back from a business trip to New Jersey and we're catching up now that the kids are in bed.

"While you were gone Oliver came up to me and said, 'I know all the passwords for the television. 1969 for the year dad was born, 1974 for the year you were born and 1999 for the year you both got married [he's correct on all counts]."

"Well, why don't I change it to 2021 then?" he replies.

"Why? What's that?"

"The year we kick him out of the house."

Happy New Year

2012-01-01T20:39:00.000-08:00

Old New

Blue Subie Red Subie

Castle Mad Men

Missionary cut Bieber-do

Deep tissue massage Medical massage

Computer as TV Flat screen

Local in-laws Mongolian mission

Ambien Melatonin

DI winter boots for boys Bogs (hello warm, dry feet!)

Store-bought bread Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day

Living room Living room (you can sit down now)

Two elementary schools One school (added bonus: carpool!)

23 nieces & nephews 25 – welcome Griffin and Luke!

Soccer Lacrosse

2011 2012

Fading days of fall

New do

Buy this book!

Dear Santa 2011

2011-12-28T14:47:00.000-08:00

Storm Trooper Takes LA

2011-12-26T22:32:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, a friend pointed out that I need to blog more. True. This is me backblogging to the end of November when Brooks took a business trip to LA for a video shoot. As is customary, Brahm sent him packing with a Lego figure (this time, a Storm Trooper) to document the trip. I present the following:

On the set

"Pull focus!"

You can't see him because he's behind the lens on this one.

Out on the town

Lunch break at the Griddle Cafe

Bumping into Alan Tudyk at the airport ("Wash" of Firefly fame, a favorite of Brooks and mine)

Good-bye coastline, hello inversions!

Makin' Treehugger Mama Proud

2011-12-25T14:37:00.000-08:00

Brahm and Oliver got "Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans" in their stockings. After sampling "booger" flavor, Oliver made sounds of throwing-up while declaring how disgusting it was. Knowing my children's habits as I do, this surprises me.

"Wait a second," I say looking at Oliver. "I thought you guys liked the taste of boogers."

"Yeah," he says, "but this is artificial."

Happy Solstice

2011-12-22T09:41:00.000-08:00

Today is the first day of winter, the day in which we have the least amount of daylight hours of the whole year (9 hours, 14 minutes and 53 seconds where I live, to be exact). We celebrated last night since winter technically arrived around 9:30 PM. Every year we get together with a couple of friends and loosely celebrate with food, a reading of the poem "The Shortest Day", then more food after that. This year I did some informal research on Solstice traditions around the world so I could embellish the celebration and up our credibility a bit.

Citrus bath for purification

Before supper, the boys and I drew a bath for them. Apparently in some Asian cultures, this time of year calls for a citrus bath that holds purification properties. Shopping for the fruit was one of the funnest parts, letting them choose among the assortment in the produce section. Pomelo, kumquat, lemon, lime, tangerine, grapefruit, orange and blood orange is what we ended up with. They set out tea lights all over the bathroom, lit them and with a handful of salt (also for purification), jumped in. This really was a beautiful sight and what was even more wonderful was how they were really into it. They wound up cutting most of the fruit in half and sampling it all. It ended when Oliver's belly button started stinging too much from the citric acid in the water.

Today is one of those days I wish I had more time to myself to finish this entry. I'd like to write about the bonfire we lit outside and the yule logs we threw on (the boys were champs and dug the pit for it in the rock hard soil) and other meaningful observations. It's already 10:30 in the morning and as soon as the boys come in from shoveling the walk (something to keep them busy while I'm writing), they'll be chomping at the bit for something fun to do. Christmas break can be a strain for all of us at times since we are not accustomed to spending hours upon hours together.

So I'll end with the poem that is read every year. Reading it is not the same as hearing the vocal rendition but for that, you'll have to show up at our house on December 21, 2012.

"The Shortest Day" by Susan Cooper

And so the Shortest Day came and the year died
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreen;
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive.
And when the new year's sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, revelling.
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them
Echoing behind us - listen!
All the long echoes, sing the same delight,
This Shortest Day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land:
They carol, feast, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends,
And hope for peace.
And now so do we, here, now,
This year and every year.

Fruit of the Harvest

2011-10-25T13:30:00.000-07:00

Lately I've been sinking into a lot of books on mythology, dreams and Jungian psychology. I would say that this photo is unrelated visual interest but, maybe it's not. I took it last week after Brooks and I pulled up the garden's tomato plants and put the beds to winter rest. This tree grows on the adjacent property (the owner has generously offered as many as I want) so we sat underneath it and gathered a few.

Here's what one book says an apple can represent: "In dreams, the apple is often seen as a symbol of wrongdoing, dating back to the the apple offered to Adam. In waking life, who, or what, has tempted you?" It hasn't showed up recently in my dreams but we've sure had our fair share of apple pie, apple crisps, apple sauce and eating them plain (fresh and baked).

Well. perhaps I have fallen into temptation of sorts since some of our harvest has come from what I like to call "orphaned" trees - trees whose fruit is falling to the ground and going to waste either because the property is abandoned or the owner is overwhelmed by sheer quantity of fruit and can't keep up. Brahm refuses to help pick if I haven't received explicit permission and Oliver will help but "only because you're forcing me to do it." Now there's an interesting psychoanalytical opportunity, eh?

Special Price for You, Pretty Lady

2011-08-27T07:32:00.000-07:00

Hendrik Winkel with his bakery cart, 1900.

In his younger years, my great-grandpa Winkel sold baked goods from a horse-drawn cart in Holland, his country of origin. Later, he came to America with his wife and children, settled in Richfield, Utah and opened up a bakery with a proper storefront. Most of his children emerged with a similar entrepreneurial spirit, including Francis Benjamin, my grandfather. Francis left Utah for California in his twenties and, after trying his hand at a few things, also settled into the bakery business. A true entrepreneur usually has his hand in several pies (no pun intended) so it was no surprise that Grandpa went into real estate investment and also opened up a lumber company, one my father eventually took over and ran successfully for many years. I've seen this spirit in my father and in myself, as well (starting up the community garden in our neighborhood was an entrepreneurial endeavor in many ways). And so it came as absolutely no surprise that Oliver Briggs showed up on this planet with an obvious desire to go into business for himself.

Take yesterday, for example. After months of growing and tending heirloom tomato seedlings he planted himself, Oliver finally opened his doors to the public in the form of a simple vegetable stand we set up on the side of a busy road here in Sandy.

Oliver Briggs at his tomato stand, 2011.

"This one is called Striped Cavern," he explained to one customer. "It's hollow inside so it's great for stuffing with rice or cheese."

His tomatoes come in an array of colors, shapes and sizes - Green Sausage, Cherokee Purple, Moonglow, Brandywine and Green Grape, to name a few.

The road to glory hasn't always been smooth. Some of his seedlings bit the dust from disease or a missed watering schedule. He'll be the first to tell you that weeding his plants on a hot July afternoon is not one of his favorite things to do, either. But any seasoned entrepreneur has stories to tell of the low points along the way.

My sense is that his lows were quickly forgotten yesterday as he lined his pockets with dollar bills.

"Why do you work so hard to take care of your plants?" I asked him one day back in April.

"Because I want money," was his simple answer.

Ah, yes. "And because you like a challenge, too," I thought to myself. For most entrepreneurs, the two together are hard to resist.

Where Am I?

2011-07-28T19:52:00.000-07:00

Emerald Bay

(Written Wednesday, July 27))

I'm sitting at the kitchen table of my cousin's cabin in South Lake Tahoe. I'm alone. Like, very alone. My nearest husband and children are 600 miles away. And I feel fine about that.

OK, that's a lie. The first two days of my vacation I felt like crap about that. Not like guilt crap but like actual "I miss you" crap. Which is so unlike me. Maybe all this meditation mumbo jumbo is backfiring and my raisin heart is graduating to prune status. I don't think I'm ready for that.

But I digress. I'm sitting at the kitchen table on the last of my four days here. I stink from beach, suntan oil and sweat. I'm procrastinating filling the bathtub mostly because I'm so tired. And I'm reflective. So I write.

In the cold of Utah winter I started hatching plans for this vacation. My cousin David and his wife Amy had bought a cabin here and generously offered it as a place to get away. At first I modestly declined but as the winter grew longer and longer (and longer and longer), a warm place to go seemed like a good idea. Originally it was going to be a family vacation but I had a sudden change of heart a few weeks ago and decided to come by myself. We all went to Legoland together in April and had a good time, Brooks had suggested I might need a vacation (that may be his way of saying he needs a vacation, if you know what I mean) so plans were revised and here I am.

I haven't had so much solitude since, well, I actually can't remember when the last time I spent four days by myself. In fact, have I ever done this? No. Therefore, I had a long list of things I wanted to do with my alone time. I anticipated going out into the woods all day long and being deeply spiritual. You know, profound meditation with short snack breaks. Well, on Monday I sat around all day in my pajamas, cried while watching Legends of the Fall, and alternately ate from five different flavors of ice cream in between dread-grooming sessions. That's spiritual. Kind of. Keep reading if you are curious as to what kind of discovery and enlightenment the getaway did, in fact, bestow.

• Silence is rejuvenating. I don't think I need to say much more than that.

• In a true mosquito crisis, I will quickly abandon my homemade essential oil formula for good old-fashioned DDT.

• I pack around too much stuff in life, literally and figuratively speaking. What am I saving up for? I don't need that much to be happy.

• Brooks is my best friend. I take his companionship for granted. I take a lot of things for granted.

• Contrary to what I have often believed over the years, a life of care-free bliss would not make me happy. It would be oppressive, if it existed at all.

• I need to drive at least 500 miles to truly get away. This is essential, psychologically-speaking. I do not need to drive that far, however, to enjoy many of the things I have been doing out here. There are so many mountain lakes and trails (both hiking and mountain biking) in my own backyard that I've never explored. What am I waiting for?

• I do not need to go to the gym in order to get exercise.

• Speaking in terms of garbage, I create a lot of waste. I'm pretty sure I can 1) back on consumption in general and 2) minimize what I personally put into the landfill by more carefully selecting what kind of products I buy. I notice that this is something I'd like to change because I desire it, not because I think I should.

• I am easily distracted in my everyday life with things that are ultimately of little consequence.

• I want to try extending the garden season using hoop houses and row covers. Don't ask me how that factored in.

• The night sky here is so black that the stars shine all the brighter. Lying on my back looking up, I see God there.

• Nature is enduring. It kind of feels like when all is said and done, She's probably going to have the last word.

• I need to get out more.

In Praise of Meditation

2011-07-03T17:13:00.000-07:00

I started meditating as a daily practice almost a year and a half ago. For me this consists of sitting in silence for twenty minutes in the morning and twenty minutes at night (sometimes more but rarely less). I'm usually on the floor mattress in my "office", propped up by the wall and a bunch of throw pillows. At first I followed the Christian Contemplative model of letting the mind go blank, allowing the layers of my ego to dissolve in order to commune with God from my core. Then I realized this style was too advanced for me. The Zen Buddhist tradition of mindfulness has become the way I "sit". It simply involves paying attention in a non-judgmental way to whatever comes up in the moment. When my mind begins to wander into the past or future I can use my breath (or any of my five senses) to bring me back into the present. The non-judgmental part can say, "Oh, look - my mind has drifted" without getting frustrated that I am not "doing it right". In fact, non-striving is a key element of mindfulness. The Taoists say that by not striving to achieve anything, everything is achieved.

Many people who mediate in earnest call it a “practice”. I have come to understand it in the way that we say “I will practice the piano” or “I’m going to a dance practice”. For me, being mindful in my daily activities does not come naturally – it takes practice. So I do.

Maybe I will write another day about how I came to meditation or how unfamiliar it seemed at first. Today I am thinking of how the quality of my life is different all these hours of practice later. Take the present moment, for example.

I’m sitting at the computer journaling this and Oliver comes in and points a homemade Lego gun in my face. I stop what I am doing and give him my attention simply by looking down the barrel into his eyes. I see mischief. Normally I would be irritated by this “intrusion” but in this moment I feel curious. I feel mindful.

“I am going to attack the Jennicita,” he informs me in an alien voice.

I continue my gaze.

“Do you think this can really shoot you?” he asks, pressing the gun a little closer to my face. I admit aloud that, indeed, I am wondering that very thing. He pulls the trigger. The bullet misses and lands somewhere in my hair.

“Oh, no!” he shrieks. “Now I’ll never find it!”

Meditation has enlarged my capacity to connect to moments like these. In this moment with Oliver, my heart feels at home, I feel an eternal connection to my child. I am not worried about how we are supposed to be packing the car right now to head out of town for the Fourth. There is more stillness, less angst.

The angst and irritation still happen but I am a hostage to them less and less. Mindfulness acknowledges heartbreak, sadness, fear, and anger – they don’t just magically disappear because I meditate. It’s that somehow the container that holds them is larger so they occupy less of the space. I have been able to sit with them and acknowledge them as guests – I know they will not stay forever. With no small measure of grace I can even wonder what I can learn from them, tune into what they are teaching me and be the wiser for it.

Let’s be clear here: the inner Godzilla is alive and well. I don’t think it’s going anywhere anytime soon. I think the difference is that now I can make room for that part of me as well. I know that it’s there (and still makes plenty of messes) but I also know that it doesn’t have to run the show all the time. Practice has cultivated an ability to say, “Hmm, look at that. Godzilla just showed up” and trust that Tokyo will still be there in the morning.

Carved Into the Backyard Fence

2011-07-01T18:50:00.000-07:00


"This house needs a DS"

Found Under Oliver's Pillow

2011-06-05T08:13:00.000-07:00

It's the Little Things That Count

2011-05-28T21:29:00.003-07:00

So, we're driving up to the movie theater tonight to See Kung Fu Panda 2. Brooks had been at a writer's group this afternoon and while he was gone the boys and I cleaned up the driveway - weeding, blowing out dead leaves, etc. In the car Brooks complimented the boys on all their efforts.

"Thank you, boys, for all your hard work today."

Encouraging the spirit of gratitude I say, "And thanks, Love, for taking us to the movie."

"Brahm catches on and adds in a wry tone, "And thanks, Mom, for giving birth to us."

Knowing it's his turn and not wanting to come up empty-handed, Oliver says, "Yeah, and thanks, Dad, for that Y chromosome."

I've Been Updated

2011-05-02T09:46:00.000-07:00

(Written 4/25/11)

My friend Lizzie Young paid me a visit today. I didn't recognize her when I opened the door, probably because I knew her best ten years ago when she was nine. She and her family lived a block down the street from us before they moved back east. Liz used to babysit Brahm on occasion when he was just a peanut. She is a couple of days away from going back home after finishing her second year at BYU. She was in the neighborhood and dropped in to say hello.

I'm glad she did.

One of the funny things about getting older is that it's not so apparent to me as it's happening but becomes increasingly so in the company of younger people. Like Lizzie. She wondered if I was still doing photography and if I had the pictures I took of her and her sisters when they were children.

"I know I still have the negatives, at least, " I tell her.

"Negatives? What are negatives?" she wants to know.

I look at her intently. "You're kidding, right?" I ask. Her tone sounds sincere enough but it might be a playful jab.

She's not kidding.

Later she says in an upfront manner, "Jenny, you need to be on facebook." This is the equivalent of saying, "I want to keep in touch with you, just not in the archaic ways you might be accustomed to. Like phone. Email. Live conversation. You know." We texted on and off for the next couple of days so at least we were able to communicate somehow non faceboci.

Another thing I noticed about the way Lizzie and I reconnected was that most of it (minus a quick tour of the remodel) took place around the computer and cell phone. She showed me pictures of her family and friends and we did some music sharing, all via applications and internet sites.

Liz and I in a photo taken on a camera phone.

Look, I'm not at all against technology or staying current with the times. I'm only admitting that my reptilian brain does not evolve as quickly as, say, other people's. Or maybe that goes without saying for most aging humans. It's just that I really enjoy spending a good hour of conversation with someone I can see face-to-face. I like planting a tomato seedling into soil I can sink my hands into. A hands-on massage feels really good to me, whether I'm the giver or receiver. I can think more clearly if I can sit down with a few minutes and a good, hot cup of tea. I don't wear a watch. My friend Bekki laughs at me because I refer to Lowe's as "the hardware store". I prefer getting a cookbook off the shelf versus opening the Betty Crocker app Brooks put on (and I deleted off) my iPhone. I still send thank-you notes via snail mail (Lizzie, if you're reading this, "snail mail" is a modern term referring to the paper-and-envelope messages that US Mail couriers hand deliver to your house. For more info, refer to the Wikipedia app on your phone).

The upside is that she showed me how to install a playlist on my blog here. So far I only have a few songs and I'll have to figure out how to place it in the sidebar where you can actually see it (it's down at the bottom for now so start scrolling). But, hey, it's a place to start.

Easter Tidings

2011-04-24T19:14:00.000-07:00

I called Matty yesterday to see if he wanted to attend an Easter mass with me today. Every year I say I'm going to go to experience what it's like but I never do. Matt is not religious at all but I thought he might be up for it. He was so we went.

He found an early morning service at the Cathedral of the Madeleine in down town Salt Lake we could attend. Thinking it might be crowded, we got there early and were surprised to get good parking and seating. I warned him on the way there that I woke up with a sticky eye and so not to be surprised if I kept my distance.

A woman on the way in offered to take our picture. "I'm doing the rounds of Easter worship this morning," she said frankly. "I'm Unitarian by faith but I know Deacon Dodge here very well. I think you will enjoy the service."

Regarding the building itself, I learned that the exterior has a Roman style but is Gothic on the inside. Construction began in 1900, was completed nine years later and cost around $344,000 to build. The frescoes, windows, statues, font - everything - was absolutely stunning. This wasn't he first time I had ever been inside but it was the first time I had sat through a service. When I was a child, we lived within walking distance from the Mission San Jose de Guadalupe. I was raised a Mormon but, even so, there was so much Catholic influence in the history and culture of where I grew up that going into a Catholic church stirs up some nostalgia. Today was no exception.

I don't resonate with the vibe of the Catholic faith but I have to say that they observe some of the most beautiful traditions. I love the way the priest swings the censer that diffuses smoke into the air (the smell is incense-like and somewhat comforting), the sung portions of mass are haunting - especially the way the sound echoes up to the high ceilings, I like how the stained-glass windows tell stories from the Bible, and the organ accompaniment is concert-hall-worthy. I observed the devotion and conviction in members of the congregation. Most of all I liked being able to absorb new things about Easter simply by hearing it in someone else's language.

On our way out, I asked Matt what he thought of the service. Referring to the part where you turn to your neighbor, shake hands and wish them peace, he said, "My favorite part was when you gave pink eye to everyone around us."

Happy Easter.

Playing with Food

2011-04-12T08:22:00.000-07:00

Brahm experiments with the culinary arts.

My Boy is Ten

2011-04-08T20:54:00.000-07:00

Wow. Ten years ago this past Wednesday, Brahm Briggs made his foray into my life. I grabbed some photos from the first few years and posted them here - there's no way to do a compilation of the last decade. There's also probably no way to sum up the ways in which this little human has changed my life.

Does anyone even remember our kitchen looking like that?

An early sign of his persistent interest in space

Loading snowballs into his beloved dump truck Brooks found at DI

Fall leaves at the park across the street

Few people are prepared for parenthood. I thought I was - I mean my pregnancy with Brahm was a decision (yeah, even though by the time I decided we should start "trying" I was already pregnant and didn't even know it!). The first year was hard - I'm not going to lie. Making the transition from a self-centered life doing things I was good at to a life revolving around a creature that challenged every insecurity was tough. People told me not to blink or I would miss his childhood. My waking hours were much longer now - how could that be true? Well, I won't say it all happened in the blink of an eye - I have so many memories of first steps, first day of school, transition from trike to bike, first loose tooth to now braces - and yet here we are at the end of his fourth grade year. It strikes me that he is more than halfway to graduation from Brinkel University.

Like most parents, I sometimes I go into his room at night and watch him sleep. It's funny how his face has changed so much since he was a child and yet when he is asleep he has the same aspect of the nine-month-old I used to lay down for a nap: his cheeks go rosy, his eyelids have a pale lavender cast and his lips are full and smooth. Even his face is the round shape it used to be. When I look at him I marvel at the patience in his growing body, at the supply of second-chances for a woman who could use them. I see how he has opened me up to the wisdom of yin, to remembering what a less linear view of the universe is like. I get chances to admit that I don't know the answers but that I am willing to help him find them. Knowing him is learning and respecting the power of sovereignty, it's enjoying the journey more and worrying about the destination less.

I thank God for the classroom that being Brahm's mom has been.

In No Particular Order

2011-04-03T19:36:00.000-07:00

Thumbs Up

1. Survivorman: Les Stroud reality series on Netflix. Man survives in remote areas on the planet with harmonica, multitool and crushed corn chips in pocket.

2. Lunch with gay boyfriend Matty at new pho restaurant in town. (Double-thumbs up: Dad spots me a twenty - lunch is on him).

3. Settlers of Catan. Jenny finally concedes to play and likes it!

4. Monster Truck Rally with Aunt Vicki, Uncle Mark and Cousin Emmett.

5. Babysitting Nonah and Zuggie.

6. Oliver: "What I need is a little more Monchichi in my life."

7. Sister Mindy's new music video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=URR_4i5gIFU

8. Spring Equinox Party with Elisa, Janelle, Chris, Amy and Peter. Rolling egg fortune game a pagan plus.

9. Buy Limited Edition Outback from in-laws. Fabu price and (heated) leather seats.

10. Kung Fu Panda 2, in theaters May 26.

Thumbs Down

1. Pet chicken Ozzie dies. $50 vet bill, prognosis: not good.

2. Whiplash, boys and I. (Prescribed massage therapy double-thumbs up. Tension headaches, double-thumbs down).

3. Cabbage farts. Not sayin' who.

4. Federal Taxes.

5. Brooks' lost wallet, April Trax pass included. (FYI: $5 reward).

6. Rough-housing on school bus = three staples in Oliver's melon. (Double-thumbs down: fifty-cent usage fee for photo.)

7. Jenny's ambulance trip to hospital ten days after auto accident. More expensive than vet bill but better prognosis.

8. Home domination of pesky houseplant gnats. They're everywhere.

9. Spotted: budding moustache hairs on Oliver's lip, not of peach-fuzz variety. Parents definitely not ready.

10. Snow storm today, at least four inches (more downed branches in back yard). Spring will just have to wait.

Indy and Snow Trooper #1476 Hit Boston

2011-03-01T16:16:00.000-08:00

Brooks found out yesterday at 5:25 pm that he would be in Boston that night on business. He took the red-eye at 11:30 and comes home tomorrow morning.

Oliver's Quote of the Day

2011-02-22T21:24:00.000-08:00

Oliver jumps off the swivel chair, his face a knot of consternation. Behind him, Ebay glows on the computer monitor.

OLIVER: "Dad, I keep searching for swords but all I get are REAL swords that cut through bamboo and cost a lot of MONEY!"

You Have the Right to Remain Reverent

2011-02-22T12:38:00.000-08:00

I'm pretty sure Oliver was the only kid bringing handcuffs to church this week.

In With the New

2011-01-06T13:06:00.000-08:00

Our life as a dream,
Our time as a stream
Glide swiftly away,
And the fugitive moment refuses to stay;

For the arrow has flown and the moments are gone.
The millennial year presses on to our view,
And eternity's here.

- Charles Wesley

Left Behind

2010-12-25T08:08:00.000-08:00

...on the hearth this morning:

Dear Oliver and Brahm,

Thank you for your letter and snacks. Sorry if we left a mess. My reindeer get thirsty flying around so fast. Usually they eat the snow on the rooftops to cool off but there wasn't any snow here! I didn't give you everything on your list. I only give really bad kids everything they want so that their greed prevents them from understanding the real meaning of Christmas.

Brahm, you were honest in your letter. That's a very noble quality. You can tell who is truly brave by how often he tells the truth. Always be brave, Brahm.

Oliver, I've noticed you've been working harder to be good. You have a mischievous side to you, like myself. It is a wonderful quality. Learn to bless people, like I have, and you will always be loved and respected.

Your dad left me a note that you boys have been fighting and asked me to to withhold a few presents. I understand why, but unlike him, I see what you do every day. I know that both of you are FAR more nice than naughty.

Oliver, you asked if I'm real. Well, my boy, I can tell you I'm as real as any dream you've ever had, or any hope you've ever held in your heart! I'm as real as a whisper and the warmth of love.

Merry Christmas to both of you!

St. Nicholas

P.S. Sorry my pen is so bad - and for the sloppiness. Prancer keeps bumping my hand!

And From Oliver

2010-12-16T08:16:00.000-08:00

And if you struggle with seven-year-old penmanship, here's a translation:

"Dear Santa Claus,
I hope you give me good presents. I want to know if you are real. I never knew that you were real. Would you please send me note on Christmas? I'd love to make some cookies for you and milk. What kind of cookies and milk do you like? I hope I've been good. Here's my list of things I want:

• battle droid bobble head
• Legos Star Wars and Atlantis
• Detective Set
• Spy Gear Set
• iPad
• iPod
• remote control ATAT
• Legos submarine set
• Nintgendo DS
• 25 bucks
• any kids robots
• any cool bobble heads that I like
• any rare Pokemon or Pokemon pack
• silly bandz
• lots of Nutcrackers
• Club Penguin membership for a year
• lots of marbles
• Mighty Mugs
• a new bike
• a big Nerf Gun
• to see you
• candy (lots)
• Poptropica Membership
• paintball gun
• Beyblade"

Mailed

2010-12-13T19:54:00.000-08:00

via Brahm's stocking:

Posted

2010-12-09T16:08:00.000-08:00

...on door of emergency food pantry in my neighborhood.

Found on Door to Basement

2010-12-09T14:42:00.000-08:00

Gift of the Magi

2010-11-23T20:59:00.000-08:00

I bought some new essential oils today and brought Oliver into the kitchen to test 'em out. Ever since he was a toddler, he's had an extraordinary sense of smell and learned early on how to experience the world through his nose. I was excited about two of the bottles, frankincense and myrrh, and wanted him to guess what they were before smelling them.

"They were two of the three gifts the Three Kings brought to Jesus," I hinted.

"Frankincense!" he guessed right away.

"Yep! What else?" I coaxed.

"Gold?"

"Yes, that's one of the gifts but it's not one of my oils, " I answered.

He sat for a moment with a perplexed look on his face. More time passed but still he could not guess the third one. Finally he looked up at me and took a stab in the dark.

"Pot?"

Overheard

2010-11-15T18:51:00.000-08:00

Oliver (in all sincerity): Dad, can I pretend like I'm a hawk every morning and come in and land on you to wake you up?

Brooks (in all sincerity): Oliver, can I pretend like I'm a boulder every morning and come in and drop on you to wake you up?

Oliver: Yes.

Brooks: And crush you?

Oliver: Yes.

New Music for Sunday

2010-11-15T09:15:00.000-08:00

And for the rest of the week, for that matter. But first, the non-related visual interest:

This was taken with my phone the day we went up to the reservoir right after school. Oliver said to me, "Mom, my favorite thing is to see the reflection of the trees in the water." I loved how he observed this because, in fact, it was beautiful. You can see a little bit of it in the water behind us with some of the snow-dusted mountain caps as well. Another thing I like about this photo is 1) that Oliver let me take it and 2) how I can see a hint of what he's going to look like as a teenager. He's growing up.

So about the music. I was just thinking this morning how I've wanted to recommend some new music for a while now. Both albums are of traditional Christian and spiritual hymns but in a different or updated style that appeals to me. I have a lot of spiritual music in my collection on terms of classical choral pieces but I haven't come across any 18th and 19th century standard hymn collections I like. Until now, that is. Mindy turned me on to both of them this last year.

The first album is called "Nearer: A New Collection of Favorite Hymns" performed by various artists. It's not your mother's LP, that's for sure. Long overdue. "Be Still, My Soul" and "It Is Well With My Soul" are two of my favorites.

The other is "The Lower Lights - A Hymn Revival" also performed by various artists in a folk and bluegrass style. I promise you've never heard "If You Could Hie to Kolob" like the rendition here. Some of my faves: "'Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus" and "There Is A Green Hill Far Away".

Both are available on iTunes. Check 'em out and let me know what you think.

Fall Back

2010-11-09T20:10:00.000-08:00

Last week I went running up along Wasatch Boulevard, at least that was my plan. I stumbled on the mouth a a trail and thought, "What the heck?" and took off. I was abundantly rewarded at the top of the first stretch by a gorgeous view of a small reservoir. The glassy water was surrounded by the last of the colored mountain leaves. Further on up I came onto the stream that empties into the lake. It was so beautiful and peaceful that I knew I was coming back soon and bringing the boys with me. A few days later was an early release from school so we headed straight for the hills after I picked them up.

They loved it.

Sunday morning we invited Brooks to go back up with us. It was the last nice day of the fall and I wanted to soak in every minute of it before the weather turned for good. Much of the fiery color that was there only days before had already dropped or turned dull but it was still gorgeous. The boys and I collected a handful of our favorite leaves to do leaf rubbings later that day. Brooks pointed out signs of wildlife, Oliver fell in the stream as he tried crossing back over, Brahm raced me on the way down (and won). When the calendar offers an extra hour, I gratefully accept.

Secret Message

2010-11-05T13:40:00.000-07:00

"INFORMATION: Mom is troubled by something. Probably secret spy gear annoying her."

Note to children: Yes, Mom is troubled by something, namely two little boys who stick their ears (a.k.a. "secret spy gear") to the bedroom door when Mom is trying to have private conversation with Dad.

"Hourglass"

2010-10-21T21:38:00.000-07:00

I got shivers a few weeks ago. The boys and I (minus Brooks) went down to Provo for the release concert of my sister's latest album "Anchor" held at the Covey Performing Arts Center on Center St. The lights went down and the curtain came up to a backdrop of red umbrellas and twinkle lights hung from the ceiling amidst foamy gauze. Then Mindy started to sing and that's when I got the shivers.

The thing about Mindy is that she is everything I'm not. Looking at her is like seeing into a younger, backward mirror: she's soft, born with a gift for expression, lovely beyond words, full of grace and natural style, deliberate, yet very down-to-earth and non-assuming. I love all these things about her and wonder what life is like looking through her lens?

Mindy is seated on my mom's lap, I'm standing second from the left.

Mindy is the eighth of nine children, six or seven years younger than me. Our parents were big on music lessons for all their daughters. We grew up with voice and instrument lessons - mostly piano - and used to sing a lot together, especially at church and family functions. But as the rest of us got older, other interests diverted our attention. Mindy and my youngest sister, Lindsey, were the only ones who took music past childhood and into college. I love that Mindy, though she didn't make it through try-outs for choral groups in high school and college, persisted in singing for the sheer love of it. I love that she believes in herself and in the power of music so much that "Anchor" is her third album release, meeting with as much acclaim and success (if not, more) as the first two.

Recently she was contacted by Michelle Phan who is a popular make-up artist on YouTube. Michelle wanted to use some of Mindy's songs in her videos so Mindy produced a video (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ixbL8PLitpw) at the last minute for one of them, "Hourglass", as a link. Incidentally, she wrote the songs for her two boys, similar in age to Brahm and Oliver. My personal favorite is the title song from her new album. I love both the song and the video http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4AWRHBHDVlQ.

It's the combination of lyrics like this and her melodic, dreamy voice that give me the goosebumps. I'm not the only one, either. An hour ago as I was watching the "Hourglass" video Oliver came in and sat on my lap to watch it with me.

"Mom, I like Mindy's voice," he says out of the blue.

"Me, too, little man. Me, too."

Random

2010-10-19T11:40:00.000-07:00

Here is the link to the eBay listing of the tie-dye tees:http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=190458486374&var=&ssPageName=STRK:MESELX:IT

I took Brahm to an activity a couple weeks ago and while I was waiting for him, Oliver and I took a trip to the vending machines. I dug around in my purse for what seemed like forever but could not find any cash. "Well, Oliver," I said, finally giving up, "looks like we're out of luck." No sooner had the words come out of my mouth than a man walked up, handed me a dollar bill, smiled, and left through an adjacent door.

Sneak Peek

2010-10-04T12:19:00.000-07:00

Making these one-of-a-kind tie-dye spooky tees has now become a yearly tradition. It started a few years ago when my friend Emily and I were brainstorming what we could donate to the craft sale at community garden's annual pumpkin festival. We came up with with a few standard tie-dye tees in the beginning and since then it has morphed into this.

The tees below are what came back this year after the festival ended. I'm posting them on my blog as a sneak peek before I put them up for sale on eBay this week (I will also post the eBay links). 100% of the proceeds go to the Wasatch Community Garden's Historic Sandy garden. Click here for more info on the garden and to see a fabu pic of the pumpkin patch in Spring 2009: http://wasatchgardens.org/garden/community-gardening. Each tee is one-of-a-kind and made from sturdy 100% cotton (not the flimsy Hanes under-shirt kind). They also come with washing and garment care instructions, of course.

Size: 2-4

Size 2-4

Size 6-8

Size 4/5


Size 2T

Size 2-4

Size 24M

Salsa Verde

2010-09-30T07:19:00.000-07:00

My friend Shauna introduced me to this recipe a couple of years ago. I'm posting it because this growing year has produced a lot of green tomatoes for me and this recipe can use them as a substitute for the tomatillos. I love the way her end product tasted largely because of the way she and her husband grilled the peppers. She cut them all up with the charred skin and all. Be sure to use bottled lemon juice and not fresh - this is important. You won't be sorry. Also, you can use a steam canner to process the jars using the same amount of time as is recommended here for the immersion method. Be sure to adjust time for your altitude. Happy Harvest!

Tomatillo Green Salsa

5 c. chopped Tomatillos (or green tomatoes)
1 1/2 c. seeded chopped long green chiles (we used anaheim chiles, and Luke roasted them on the grill along with the jalapenos)
1/2 c. seeded finely chopped jalapenos
4 c. chopped onions
1 c. bottled lemon juice
6 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
1 TBSP ground cumin
1 TBSP salt
1 tsp black pepper

Combine all ingredients in large sauce pan and stir frequently over high heat until mixture begins to boil. Reduce heat and simmer 20 minutes, stirring occasionally. Ladle into hot pint jars, leaving 1/2 inch headspace. Adjust lids and process in a boiling water canner 20 minutes.

So It Is

2010-09-29T20:23:00.000-07:00

While unwinding for bed tonight, I go into my office to water the schefflera tree. Looking up, I notice a Lego fortress custom-built around its trunk. I also notice dead leaves on the floor and as I extricate the creation from its place, a few more fall from the branches to join the others. Concerned, I take it up with Brahm, who is finishing dinner in the next room.

"Hey, dude, I don't mean to rain on your parade but I'm wondering if you can find a new home for your Lego fortress. I think it might be a strain on the tree."

"No problem, Mom," is his reply. "This parade has brought along umbrellas."

"Hey," I chime. "I like that." I pause to reflect on the different meanings of his insight, impressed with the wisdom my nine-year-old has just imparted.

"What do you like about it?" he wants to know.

"Well," I begin, grabbing a chair to join him, "I like how, for me, it means that even in a bad circumstance, I can change my attitude. I can be flexible and not let it get me down. It's like I have a back-up plan or something."

"Yeah," he agrees, seeing my point. "Well, my back-up plan has taken the shape of a Lego hideout in the fern in the mudroom."

Best of Las Vegas

2010-09-26T20:01:00.000-07:00

Our Lego Explorers in The City That Never Sleeps:

The Strip with Eiffel Tower in background

View from Hotel Aria

On coffee break outside the conference room

Bellagio Fountain

Workin' long hours

Droppin' nickels at the slots

On set

"Yeah, we've earned it!"

Found on Church Pew

2010-09-22T20:36:00.000-07:00

Which pretty much indicates that it was a Sunday School assignment (notice how brief and to the point it is). And nevermind that Brahm is his only brother. I think I'll post it anyway.

Takes One to Know One

2010-09-21T08:00:00.000-07:00

The universe is continually confirming to me that what bothers me in other people is usually a reflection of something amiss in myself (see "Who Am I?" for more on this topic).

Take a morning commute from last week, for example. It seems that every year, no matter which route we choose, UDOT manages to plan some kind of major construction on the roads which take us to and from school. Add to that the innumerable amount of inconsiderate drivers in our path (Utah is infamous for this) and I guess it all became too much for me on this particular morning.

"Guys, " I say, directing my comments to the creatures in the back seat, "I'm really glad you're watching all of this because I want you to start learning now how not to drive." Even from the drivers seat I can still see their little eyeballs rolling to the back of their heads. This is not the first time they've had the "Look-at-All-of-the-Incompetent-Drivers-Out-There" lecture. Still, I persist. "I want you to learn how to actually use your turn signal when you drive. And when you're going to make a right turn at a stop, you must come to a complete stop first and then look to the left to see if anyone's coming before you proceed." No response. "And furthermore," I add, feeling encouraged, "when there's construction going on like this you must slow down and drive carefully. You never know when a worker is going to pop out from behind their truck and surprise you. Basically, do exactly the opposite of what you see all these idiot drivers doing."

There's a long moment of silence in the back seat which means, of course, that my wisdom must be penetrating their young minds. I allow it to sink in. But before I can let myself feel too satisfied, Oliver's next comment becomes a different kind of lesson all of its own.

"But Mom," he observes matter-of-factly, "sometimes you're an idiot driver, too."

Where In the World?

2010-09-20T13:00:00.000-07:00

Last week Brooks left for a business trip to San Francisco. Knowing he would be gone all week, Brahm sent him with one of his Lego Storm Troopers just in case Brooks felt lonely and missed him. Being sensitive to others is not unlike Brahm. Two of his gifts are a strong sense of compassion and empathy for others. Brooks understands this. In fact, he knows just how much he and his son are alike in this way. So it shouldn't have surprised me (though it did) when this series of photos showed up a few days later for Brahm.

Bay Bridge Tunnel

Bay Bridge

Union Square

The Embarcadero

Taxi Drive

Down Town

Brooks is in Las Vegas this week. He didn't leave empty handed, either. Oliver sent him with a Lego Snow Trooper and Brahm, a sheriff (with handcuffs - a non-negotiable travel accessory, I'm told). We can't wait to see where they'll turn up this time...

Hodge Podge

2010-09-14T21:36:00.000-07:00

One of the best things I ever did in my garden was plant the strawberry patch. I expected small, pithy berries but instead have been completely surprised by the large, juicy ones we have picked all summer long. Bless Brooks for letting me tear out a strip of the front lawn where the berries now grow. It's the only piece of land we own that gets a full twelve hours of sun at the peak of summer. That's probably why they have done so well - that and all the TLC the boys and I have put into it. They have rewarded us with more fruit than we can handle - enough for pie, freezer jam, cereal toppers, salads, ice cream and fresh eating.

One thing I notice about myself is that I'm a very tactile person and enjoy a creative process that starts from scratch. This means that nothing makes me geek-out more than picking the strawberries right off the plant, washing and hulling them right into a pie shell that started out as a bowl of flour and butter. This recipe here calls for a cream cheese filling (a block of cream cheese, 1/4 cup of sugar and a couple tablespoons of sour cream or plain yogurt), a layer of sliced kiwi and a crown of berries covered in a corn starch-based glaze. No one here turned down a slice.

A month ago or so the boys and I were home camping out in the living room. This appeases my conscience some since I hate actual camping and they love it. We built a sheet tent, stuck marshmallows on sticks and "roasted" them over a fire we conjured from construction paper. All of the sudden we hear a storm pick up outside and were astonished moments later to see hail the size of gumballs coming down all over the neighborhood. Of course the boys run out and gather as many as they could while I'm giving Brooks a play-by-play over the phone (I love how he humors me by listening when I call him at work with stuff like this). Weeks later and I think there are still a few rolling around the bottom of the freezer.

And finally, Brooks gets his 9th consecutive "Dad of the Year" award by building these wooden artillery units with the boys. I came home from work one Saturday afternoon to find them all busy with a jigsaw and a sander only to proudly emerge a couple of hours later with what you see featured below. What's not featured is what Brooks later built - a wooden pistol with which to arm himself. Smart dad.

Memo to Children

2010-09-14T20:58:00.000-07:00

The garlic press is not for Play-doh.

Conditioned Response

2010-08-18T22:45:00.000-07:00

Everyone is born with a gift. At least that's what I was telling Oliver the other day. He was fascinated by this concept and wanted to know what his gift is.

"You have the gift of resilience," I tell him. I observe that he is able to let a lot of things roll off his back and when they don't, it's not very long before he's back to himself again. I notice other gifts in him that we didn't talk about that day: he has a hearty spiritual constitution, laughs easily, has a very curious and keen mind and is able to persist long after others have given up.

Fast forward about a week. Grandma Briggs had loaned us her Outback while our car was in the shop and we were on our way home that night after returning it to her. Even though our car is running, it certainly has seen better days. I really enjoyed driving the Outback for the week and wondered how I could possibly put lipstick on the pig that is our own vehicle. Wanting an upgrade but not wanting to invest, I ask Brooks, "Do you think we can go to a junk yard and find some leather seats for our car like the ones your mom has?"

He laughs and says, "Yeah, if you want them to be all cracked and nasty."

"But your mom's car is the same year as ours and her seats are perfect."

"That's because my dad has religiously applied leather conditioner to them over the years to keep them in good shape."

"So how about you start putting fabric conditioner on our seats to keep them in perfect condition for me?"

This is funny to us primarily because I'm the reason the car interior, including the seats, is so pathetic. It's just me and the boys who use it 90% of the time so I take no pains to keep it presentable since the mess only bothers me once things start to smell. It's also funny because Brooks is nothing like his father when it comes to being fastidious about maintenance - not cars, not lawns, not anything - so the good-humored ribbing doesn't escape his notice.

"OK, I'll put some on right now," he jabs back and lifts his cheek to make a huge farting sound.

This really gets me laughing but not as much as what happens next. Oliver (who apparently has been listening the whole time) is duly impressed because behind me I hear him comment to himself, "Now that's a special gift!"

Then and Now

2010-08-17T20:37:00.000-07:00

Capitulation

2010-08-15T22:04:00.000-07:00

Found clipped to the pencil holder by the computer:

"I surrender! Stop the smug madness."

Who Am I?

2010-08-01T11:07:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I'm looking down in the pan of tempeh and spinach I'm sauteeing for lunch and have a disturbing moment of self-awareness.

"Hey, Brooks!" I shout to the next room. "Can you come here for a second?"

A moment later he's standing next to me at the stove. I turn off the burner and face him.

"Look at me," I say. "I drive an aged Subaru station wagon, I have dreadlocks, I am at present eating a soy product in a recipe I got from Whole Foods (a destination arrived at in said Subaru wagon), I wore Chaco's to my massage therapy job today (a destination arrived at via combination of bicycle and public transportation). I employ the use of reusable shopping bags and bottle food grown organically in community gardens."

He stares at me waiting for me to come to the point.

"Bro-oks!" I demand, clearly distressed. "What has become of me?"

"You're hard-core, Jenny." I understand from the way he says this that this is common knowledge. Common to everyone but me, that is.

I have to sit down. After a moment I counter, "Then why don't I identify with those kind of people? In fact, why do they bug me just looking at them?"

He jumps at this. "I don't know, Jenny. What's the universe trying to tell you?"

Great. He's doing to me what I often do to him when he's having a strong reaction to a person or event. It's my belief that these kinds of triggers mark some unresolved issue that, if carefully and honestly considered, will usually reveal exactly what it is followed by an opportunity for resolution. I want to be irritated with him at first but then the curiosity over the underlying issue distracts me.

"Hmm," I answer, more to myself than to him. "What could it be?"

The answer to this particular question isn't long in coming. I have deeply held, albeit outdated belief, that the work of determining my path in life is best left to someone or something else that knows what's best for me but that that person or thing is almost never me. I have evolved over the last few years to the point where I can actually trust my judgment and inspiration to guide me. I am also learning that it's not necessarily a question of which path is best or right (a belief that often paralyzed my decision-making process) but rather which path resonates with my authentic self and respects the rights of other people at the same time. To make my own decisions without deferring entirely to outside sources has been a challenging journey full of insecurity, false-starts and poor choices. I have felt resentment that the ability to act for myself has not come easily. When considering my reaction to people for whom it seems it does, I realize I feel jealous. I envy their ability to charter their own course in life, even when it may challenge tradition or societal norms. This surprises me because when I ask myself whether or not I am free to do the same, the answer is yes. Even though I am currently living more or less in harmony with this idea, I guess I haven't quite married the old and new way of being; all external signs point to yes while internally I may still be struggling with no.

Hmmm. As my friend Bekki says, this is good information.

It's now Sunday morning as I write. It would be pretentious to say I have this figured out or that I even know exactly why I'm writing about it. Brooks comes into the living room where I am and pauses in the doorway. I look up at him and say as much. With his signature reassurance he says, "Just let it be what it is. Just let it be."

Found on the Kitchen Table

2010-07-27T21:24:00.000-07:00

"Dear Brahm - I have decided to be a mad scientist so I can get some money. From: O P.S. I'm going to sell my inventions."

(On the other side)

2010-07-18T18:00:00.000-07:00

These images reflect Brahm and Oliver's relationship fairly well. They are very close and like to be silly.

I also paid them to pose for this.

We were in the backyard yesterday picking raspberries when I went to get my camera. Their summer haircuts and sun-kissed skin are too much to resist. As soon as they see me they start acting goofy on purpose to wreck the shots. This is pretty much par for the course as is what I do next: offer a financial incentive. Since we've done this a time or two I know to lowball them at first because Oliver will instantly demand twice the initial offer. Since I know he's going to do this, I'm ready to refuse. I really want the shots but he wants the money more. So when I say, "OK, forget it." and start to walk away, he grabs Brahm and jumps in front of the camera with all manner of brotherly love.

I'm no dummy - I shoot like crazy because who knows how long it will last? They'll have a visual reminder in fifty years of a time in their lives when things were simple and unfettered. They will be inclined to remember when they got along and forget the times they didn't. Brooks and I will be gone long before their brotherhood ends and a photo will outlast us all.

Fifty cents never went so far.

Reasons I Love Summer

2010-07-05T20:50:00.000-07:00

And not necessarily in this order...

10. Sleeping in, late breakfast, wearing pajamas until 10:00
9. Hanging laundry on the clothesline, the smell of my favorite fabric softener
8. Watching lightning storms from the porch swing while holding Brooks' hand
7. Mowing the lawn, the smell of fresh cutting, tossing them to the chickens
6. The anticipation of tomatoes from the vine, the stain of green leaves under my fingernails
5. Homemade ice cream!

4. Standing in front of the swamp cooler, its whirring sound
3. Talking to Randy and Colleen over the fence: "Well, hello, Miss Jenny!"
2. Long days at the pool, sunscreen, beach towels, the smell of chlorine
1. More hours of sun during the day, crickets singing outside the window at night

Should I Be Disturbed?

2010-06-26T19:59:00.000-07:00

My responsible self says "yes" but then the rest of me is laughing my arse off! When Brahm bought this set of fireworks the other day I overheard him and Oliver refer to them as "Barbie Launchers".

?!!

"Let's not really kill her, though, Oliver. Let's just see how high she can go."

"No, Brahm. We need to punish her."

OK - yes, I should be disturbed. And I am. It's just that this whole scenario is so bizarre to me since I have never detected any sadistic tendencies in either of them. Until now, that is.

Well, now that I think about it, I did discover this photo taken on the point-and-shoot a couple months ago...

I Know You Are, But What Am I?

2010-06-15T22:38:00.000-07:00

Non-related visual content: Summer has definitely arrived at the Winkel-Briggs casita. Oliver dove into the strawberry patch and came up with this handful. Brahm is enjoying the first watermelon of the season. It was soooo tasty...

So, I'm posting an email I sent out to some friends asking for help (I've edited the original for brevity sake) along with snippets of the responses I got. I've been surprised at the variance in advice, all of which has been heart-felt and very much appreciated.

"My kids have taken to playing baseball at the park with the neighborhood boys. It’s come to my attention that some of the boys will curs[e] at them, call them mean names and sham[e] them about their performance (they’re pretty new to baseball). The Mama Bear in me wants to go out and pulverize them, of course, but the wiser part of me sees this as a learning opportunity for my kids. We have talked about it at the dinner table with validating phrases like, “I get upset when people are mean to me and call me names, too,” but in the end I would like to offer them more specific tools to defend themselves (i.e., things they can say back or do in response) so they don’t end up feeling walked on... or retaliate with more of the same. I also don’t want to bar them from participating because, among other reasons, it’s a great chance for them to acquire skills that will help them navigate in [difficult] social situations for the rest of their lives.... If all else fails, I guess I’ve got Brooks’ 4th grade BB gun in the attic."

OK, still Jenny here. I want to add a couple of things for clarification:

1) They played only twice with those kids and experienced the bullying both times.

2) I don't compel my boys to play in the name of "getting back on the horse" - I asked them the second time if they wanted to go out and they went without hesitation.

3) Most of the kids are older than Brahm and all are older than Oliver. Only two of the five boys would I consider to be their friends.

The responses is as follows:

"I guess the only advice that I have is attitude. Teaching your kids that how they handle something hard with the way they shift their attitude about it. We have experiences in our life when our brain and most likely other people are telling us that we are not good enough and that we can't handle it, but with a positive I can do anything I set out to do attitude anything is possible. You might not be the first or the best but you are the best that you can be and that is the most important thing."

"That is out of my league. And here I thought magic marker in the carpet was a big deal. Good luck."

"I was made fun of a lot as a kid, mostly for the way that I looked, and not my lousy sports ability and my parents told me that I ought to defend myself. It took a few tries but eventually I was always able to come up with some quick-witted remark. I really think the best way to go when you're lousy at something, like sports or dancing, is to teach your kids to find some humor in it. Tell them it's great that they keep trying and express that if they really can't stand it, that it's okay to stop."

"I think kids model other kids' behavior if they hang around it too long. I think the mama bear instinct is there for a reason and shouldn't be ignored. I'm sure it's not wise to step in every time your kid is faced with life's bullies, but it sounds like you're allowing them consistent exposure to kids' whose behavior is detrimental.... Protect your kids, Jenny. Teach them that they can have a good time without bullies and to avoid those kinds of people."

"You might want to go supervise, and make sure they all behave reasonably. Hard to imagine they’d get away with this stuff with adults present.... I suspect having a parent-referee present could do wonders with behavior that is unacceptable more than throwing your boys to the wolves. And maybe some quiet lessons on the side, so they are better qualified to join in wouldn’t hurt things.

Too, I worry that you are telling your boys that abuse is fine as long as the end result is desirable. Playing sports and fitting in... are all good things, but hard to imagine that knowing when to walk away when someone is not behaving well toward you doesn’t trump all those.... I’m leaning toward...“Why put up with this, exactly?”

So, dear readers, if you have additional wisdom you would like to share (whether you know me or not), I welcome it. I will follow up in a couple of weeks.

Here's Some Incendiary Content for Ya

2010-05-03T22:55:00.000-07:00

One thing you may not know about me is that I come from a very politically conservative background. I know, I know - I reek of liberal but the truth is I am neither here nor there when it comes to politics. I'm not a Republican but I'm not a Democrat either. In fact, I purposefully avoid politics on this blog for a reason: it alienates people and frankly, I'm a lover, not a fighter.

Weeeell, OK. I'm a fighter. Disguised as a lover. And that is why I am posting en email exchange that circulated through my family (as in parents, siblings and spouses) today.

It may surprise you to know that for as conservatively as my siblings and I were raised, a good half or more of us have turned out to have a definite liberal leaning. This makes for some "lively" exchange. We know better than to bring up controversial topics over Thanksgiving dinner. In fact, we rarely, if ever, discuss them in person at all. I guess that's why the email exchange has become so popular: safety via distance. And it's my mother - a woman who all my life I assumed was non-confrontational and socially accommodating - who has assumed the role of instigator! In the past couple of years she has become very politically involved and this, on top of her lifelong devotion to her religion, has sparked more than one round of cyber-debate amongst the rest of us. It didn't take me long before I started to routinely delete her emails from my inbox (sorry, Mom, but I do) when they hint of religious content, Glen Beck or both. I'm simply triggered way too easily and end up dumping too many hours of my time into a response then needing the rest of the week to diffuse and recover. The last time I engaged was a couple years ago on a round of Prop 8 arguments but have been pretty restrained since then.

Until tonight.

I made the mistake of opening the following email she forwarded:

LET ME SEE IF I GOT THIS RIGHT
IF YOU CROSS THE NORTH KOREAN BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU GET 12 YEARS HARD LABOR.

IF YOU CROSS THE IRANIAN BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU ARE DETAINED INDEFINITELY.

IF YOU CROSS THE AFGHAN BORDER ILLEGALLY, YOU GET SHOT.

IF YOU CROSS THE SAUDI ARABIAN BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU WILL BE JAILED.

IF YOU CROSS THE CHINESE BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU MAY NEVER BE HEARD FROM AGAIN.

IF YOU CROSS THE VENEZUELAN BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU WILL BE BRANDED A SPY AND YOUR FATE WILL BE SEALED.

IF YOU CROSS THE CUBAN BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU WILL BE THROWN INTO POLITICAL PRISON TO ROT.

And if you cross the Mexican border illegally you get fined and jailed!

IF YOU CROSS THE U.S. BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU GET:

1 - A JOB,

2 - A DRIVERS LICENSE,

3 - SOCIAL SECURITY CARD,

4 - WELFARE,

5 - FOOD STAMPS,

6 - CREDIT CARDS,

7 - SUBSIDIZED RENT OR A LOAN TO BUY A HOUSE,

8 - FREE EDUCATION,

9 - FREE HEALTH CARE,

10 - A LOBBYIST IN WASHINGTON

11 - BILLIONS OF DOLLARS WORTH OF PUBLIC DOCUMENTS PRINTED IN YOUR LANGUAGE

12 - AND THE RIGHT TO CARRY YOUR COUNTRY S FLAG WHILE YOU PROTEST THAT YOU DON T GET ENOUGH RESPECT IN OUR COUNTRY

I JUST WANTED TO MAKE SURE I HAD A FIRM GRASP OF THE SITUATION

For the record, I have not come up with an official position on illegal immigration reform. This issue is just far too complex and way too emotionally charged for me to achieve any sort of clarity. Furthermore, there are sound arguments on both sides. What really triggered me here is - well, several things - but mainly the overemphasized sense of entitlement that the author simply reeks of. The older I get, the more I am confronted with the simple truth that there but for the grace of God go I.

And that is why I emailed back the following reply. But before I post it, I acknowledge that I am guilty of the very same crime as the author of the above-posted tortoise caca: my counter-argument is an emotional appeal and way over-simplifies the case, thus doing both sides a disservice. Having said that, I'm human.

OK, I guess that's it.

No, there's one more thing. Isn't there always a little more room for love and compassion for our fellow man, whoever they are? And isn't there enough in our land-of-plenty (yes, even the very land we stole from the original inhabitants) to go around?

OK, now I'm done. My reply:

IF YOU CROSS THE U.S. BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU GET:

1 – SHOT AT/ KILLED WHILE CROSSING. OR MAYBE YOU DIE IN THE FALSE BOTTOM OF A SMUGGLER'S TRUCK BEFORE YOU EVEN MAKE IT TO THE BORDER

2 – A BUNK IN AN OVERCROWDED, SQUALLID MIGRANT CAMP

3 – TO PAY FOR COLLEGE BUT DON’T GET A DIPLOMA

4 – TO LIVE IN CONSTANT FEAR OF BEING APPREHENDED AND INCARCERATED

5 – OVERWORKED AND UNDERPAID FOR A JOB AN AMERICAN WOULD SCOFF AT

6 – INDEFINITELY SEPARATED FROM YOUR SPOUSE AND CHILDREN

7 – THROWN INTO A CULTURE THAT IS NOT YOUR OWN AND MUST LEARN A LANGUAGE NOT YOUR OWN

8 – TO SUPPORT AN ECONOMY THAT WOULD FAIL WITHOUT YOU

9 – EXPLOITED, DISCRIMINATED AGAINST AND LOOKED DOWN UPON

10 – RACIALLY PROFILED AND HARRASSED BY LAW ENFORCEMENT

11 – TO LIVE AMONG A POPULATION WITH AN EXAGGERATED SENSE OF ENTITLEMENT, MAYBE EVEN CLEAN THEIR MCMANSIONS IF YOU’RE LUCKY

12 – TO RISK, EMBRACE, AND ENDURE ALL OF THIS BECAUSE IT IS BETTER THAN THE POVERTY AND SYSTEMIC CORRUPTION OF THE COUNTRY YOU CAME FROM

JENNY

PS PERHAPS NORTH KOREA, IRAN, AFGHANISTAN, SAUDI ARABIA, CHINA, AND VENEZUELA ARE CURRENTLY ACCEPTING APPLICATIONS FOR CITIZENSHIP

Confessions of a Bad Mom

2010-04-30T22:07:00.000-07:00

No, this isn't the mom nor the confession. This is the non-related photo interest for this entry. It's a picture Brooks took on his morning commute. It appears to be a woman painting her toenails on the train. Beyond that, we'd have to ask Brooks who it is and why he took it. Or better yet, you can post a comment with your own caption of what's going on here. A free round trip ticket to the person with the most original reply.

OK, so go ahead and disregard that other post about coming around as a mother, blah, blah, blah. This parentis is still incompetis. I think making your kid cry definitely qualifies for that category.

Take Wednesday, for example. I know that a huge trigger for me is operating under the pressure of being on time. It's practically an emotional outburst waiting to happen. I take precautions: meditate (then medicate) for twenty minutes before everyone else wakes up, recruit Brooks' support by delegating morning tasks he is willing to perform, and having the boys create a check list of things they need to do in order to get themselves ready for school.

I also realize that I am the only one that cares. Well, they realize it, too, and they do their best to support me in my punctuality but in the end it's really only my own little sef-imposed deadline. I know the world will not end if we're not in the car at 7:46 am. The world might not end, but I might get a little crazy.

Like Wednesday morning. We're out the door on time (phew!) but then I realize I left my cell phone in my office so I give Oliver the keys and say to both boys, "Please go unlock the car and get buckled in. I'll be out in a few seconds."

Believing that they will do this is my second mistake (believing in the punctuality myth is the first). As I rush back out the door, I'm caught off guard by the sight of Brahm scaling up a ladder to get on to the garage roof while Oliver is disappearing into the garage to fetch him a shovel. A shovel?! I ask you, what is a nine-year-old going to do with a shovel on the roof a garage at 7:51 in the morning and why is his little brother aiding and abetting him in this logic-defying pursuit? And so I posed the same question to them, only phrased slightly different.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Look, I am the first to admit that that phrase is unlikely to be found in any child-rearing manual in the top ten ways of addressing a child (if you 1-want him to listen or 2-love you back) and yet, there it was. As mild as that is compared to other phrases I have uttered in my lifetime, I do admit that I was surprised to hear me say it. In fact, I don't recall ever having said it to either of my boys before (out loud anyway).

Sigh.

So that's what made Brahm cry. I think Oliver was over it in about 3.4 seconds but Brahm put his head down the whole way to school and couldn't look at me for all the disgust he felt at a parent who should know better but doesn't. "You swore, Mom!" And here I was patting myself on the back for blurting out that word instead of all the others at my disposal. Significant, if you think about it, since that's probably where I'll be going for saying it.

Quote of the Day

2010-04-14T22:14:00.000-07:00

From a friend of a friend: "I asked for divine intervention and turns out all I needed was a sandwich and a nap."

Roasted Artichokes and Cici Beans

2010-04-13T10:51:00.000-07:00

I'm always looking for ways to incorporate more vegetables into my diet, especially since I have fallen into a rut of serving up a steamed green of some sort along side the main course of dinner. I came across this today in the Delicious Living magazine and posted their online version below. It didn't included the photo (which is the best part!) so I scanned the one in the magazine. I made it for lunch and give it five stars because 1) it's very yummy, 2) has a tasty variety of veggies 3) good fiber and nutrition content, and 4) it can be eaten as a side dish (next to a grilled mahi mahi steak is what sounds good to me) or as a one-dish meal, especially if you are a vegan or vegetarian. Click here for more vegetarian recipes like this: http://deliciouslivingmag.com/food/recipes/vegan/3-30-vegan-feast/index.html

Note: I used canned artichokes and bottled tomatoes in the place of fresh and it turned out great. Also, I bet this would work great in a crock pot.

Serves 6 / Ingredient tips: Cici (garbanzo) beans add lean protein and texture to this hearty dish. Baby artichokes can be eaten whole after cooking because they don’t have the fuzzy heart typical of larger artichokes. If you can’t find them, use prepared artichoke hearts (canned in water and well drained); roast until lightly browned for flavor, halve, then stir into cici-bean mixture as directed.

6 baby artichokes (or one 15-ounce can artichoke hearts in water, drained)

1 teaspoon lemon juice

1 tablespoon vegetable oil

1/2 medium sweet onion, diced

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 medium Roma tomatoes, diced and drained

1 teaspoon whole fennel seed

2 tablespoons chopped sun-dried tomatoes (packed in oil and drained)

1/2 tablespoon agave nectar or other sweetener

1 15-ounce can cici (garbanzo) beans, rinsed and drained

2 tablespoons lightly chopped fresh basil or 1 tablespoon dried basil

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

1. Wash artichokes and remove tough outer leaves. With a knife, trim stem and cut off the top ½ inch of each artichoke. As you go, place artichokes in a large bowl of water with 1 teaspoon lemon juice. Let trimmed chokes soak in lemon water for 20 minutes (this helps preserve their color when cooking).

2. Preheat oven to 350˚. Remove chokes from lemon water (turn upside down to drain thoroughly) and place in a lightly oiled, shallow ceramic or glass baking dish (not metal); sprinkle with salt and pepper. Roast in oven until tender, 30 minutes for small chokes and 45–60 minutes for medium and larger ones. Remove from oven and cool.

3. Heat oil in a large, nonstick or heavy skillet on medium heat. Add onion and sauté until lightly caramelized, about 10 minutes. Add garlic, tomatoes, fennel seed, sun-dried tomatoes, and agave. Stir. After 1 minute, reduce heat and simmer for 15–20 minutes. Add beans, basil, and olive oil, combining well. Add salt and pepper to taste.

4. Cut cooled artichokes in half and place in a large bowl; add bean-tomato mixture and toss lightly. Serve.

PER SERVING: 156 cal, 33% fat cal, 6g fat, 1g sat fat, 0mg chol, 6g protein, 22g carb, 7g fiber, 114mg sodium

Jeepers Creepers!

2010-04-12T19:22:00.000-07:00

I think the hormone and psychotherapy is finally paying off - I'm beginning to experience the delights of being a mom! Now whether or not Brahm and Oliver like being my kids is another question, but for now, things seem to be looking up.

Brooks snapped this shot of Oliver and I on the way to church last Sunday. I love how he digs on these bug-eye glasses I bought at a party supply store, so much so that he asked permission to wear them to Sunday School. I agreed that he could wear them before and after, but not during, and he seemed OK with that.

Oliver is a boy inclined to blurt out random questions when something is really weighing on his mind. Take that Sunday, for example. In testimony meeting during a quiet moment (of course), he turns to Brooks and asks in a fairly loud voice, "Dad, does General Grievous have a human brain?" Or last night before bed he walks into the kitchen wanting to know, "Are throw-ups toxic?" He also enjoys recounting information he has amassed during school. "Mom, starfish aren't really starfish. They are seastars. And did you know that if one of their legs gets cut off, they grow another one? But if they get cut in half, they die because their stomach is in the middle of their body and they need it to survive." He is a boy not unlike most other children, full of questions and wonder. I am grateful that I am beginning to be connected enough with myself that I notice.

Another thing I notice is how big my boys are getting. Brahm turned nine last week! When I tucked him into bed on his birthday eve he reminded me to put the streamers around his room for him to wake up to. I was surprised to hear him say this because I didn't know that ever really mattered to him. When he was very little, maybe two or three, I began the tradition of putting up crepe paper all around his bedroom and in the doorways of the house on the night before his birthday. Brooks and I would also buy a huge bouquet of balloons and set them loose in his room so that he could celebrate his special day from the moment he woke up. That was back in the day when we had hardly two dimes to rub together and I worried that I was spending too much on decorations. This year I almost didn't do it wondering if it would seem to juvenile to him now. That's why I was pleased to hear him remind me, especially since I had already bought all the supplies. Another reason I was pleased is because this (along with a few other birthday traditions) has been my way of showing Brahm I love him. For as handicapped as I've been in this area for both my boys, I decided that if I could make their birthdays memorable, then in this one way they would always remember how unfathomably wonderful they are to me.

Here's a clip of the boys shortly after waking up. Unless you're related, you will most likely find it uninteresting (except for Oliver's butt-scratching sequence). Note how Oliver decides an important part of the celebration will include Brahm getting to choose what color tee-shirt and pants Oliver is to wear that day...

We Did It Again

2010-04-11T21:03:00.000-07:00

Meet the new ladies of the house (l-r): Lady Peaches Fondue, a Cornish; Rebecca Lucille, a White Leghorn; Fauxhawk, an Auracana and Licorice/Searchlight, a Silver Lace Wyandotte (Licorice by day, Searchlight by night).

We said good-bye this year to Buffy (because it was a rooster) and Eve (because she kept escaping the pen and eating my garden). I'm making it sound like that was the reason we bought the chicks last month when really it's because we've formed a chicken habit. We agreed on adding three more to the brood but I came home with a fourth because "Silver Lace Wyandotte" sounded so promising.

Oliver with his harem. His chick is Licorice who he will tuck inside his coat and take with us when we run errands (sometimes I am aware of this and sometimes I am not). Normally I would discourage it but he has a gift with birds; they seem to be drawn to him.

Peaches got a bird bath to remove some, uh, "excrement" from her tail feathers that got stuck. You can't just leave a wet chicken hanging, right? Here's Brooks taking care of business.

Brooks and Peaches at the breakfast table.

Second-guessing their birthday gift for Brahm.

What Am I Doing Right Now?

2010-03-02T21:31:00.000-08:00

Well, the first thing I am doing is giving you the non-related visual for today's entry. It's what the bottom of the tub looked like after I finally washed my dreads for the first time. (Oh, come on, Berneda - you love it. Don't act like you don't.)And now, in no particular order:

1. I'm rewarding myself with some blog time for having trudged through two hours of working on a business plan for school. I need to present it to the director of education by next week in order to waive Practice Building II. Ugh! I know why I was not a business major in college.

2. I am trying not to think about what various pieces of chocolate I've hidden around the house. It's not really hidden (to me, anyway) and besides, there's no danger of them being found: I'm too lazy to get out of my chair.

3. I am icing my thoracic vertebrae around T4 and 5. I lifted by nephew out of his car seat yesterday (he's not even a year old!) and threw my back out. OK, that is waaaay pathetic. So it's an old, recurring old injury but still. The chiropractor put it back in today and told me it's a subluxation of the transverse processes of the affected vertebrae. My pathology teacher will be glad to know I actually understand this. And I'm glad to know it's not a herniated disc as I always believed it was. Go figure.

4. I am pretending you care.

5. I am trying to ignore the fact that my feet are cold (to say nothing of my lower back). Again, too lazy to actually do anything about it.

6. Am putting off going to bed. Again.

7. Am looking out the window at a gorgeous, buttery moon on the wane. Oh, look! It's disappearing behind a cloud now...

8. I'm subjecting Brooks (who's sitting on the floor behind me) to new songs I've purchased for the purpose of doing Thai Yoga Massage. Right now it's F.H.H.(Instrumental) by RJD2. My absolute favorite is an album called "Soon it Will be Cold Enough" by Emancipator. Kodiak turned me on to it and I have to say it's pretty good (minus track 5). Even Brooks likes it.

9. I am acting as if the piece of chocolate I ate (before I was too lazy to go get more) is not making my shoulder muscles burn (for my anatomy teacher, I am referring to the first three heads of my trapezius). Hence the reason I hide the chocolate.

10. Showing you what 2.8 seconds in the life of my second-born is like:

On Second Thought

2010-01-26T21:39:00.000-08:00

Brooks: "Wait - did that guy just say, 'for time and all eternity'?"

So Far So Good

2010-01-14T20:54:00.000-08:00

Brooks says this reminds him of me in the kitchen (I'm thinking it's more the hair than the attitude...)

See more at www.bentobjects.blogspot.com.

OK, my week at a glance:

Thumbs Down

Inversions
Sore throat
Ringworm at clinic (first client of the day!)
Baby carrots
Lingering casino-like smell throughout house
Cold toes
Catching wrong train, missing right one
Road construction on 700 E
Dreadlocks and Velcro
Boxed Christmas decor still in front room
Bathroom at a standstill
Missing mittens
Bike in hibernation

Thumbs Up

Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch
Unexpected visit from bosom friend (see www.suerichardson.blogspot.com)
Sweet potato salad with Beligian endive
Shiatsu
Clean boys' bedroom (with sleeping children)!

New red paint in said bedroom
Fresh tulips indoors
Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch
3:00 naps
Pho with friends
Seed catalogs from postman
Church at 1:00
Fencing lessons for Oliver
Sharing a Subway with Brahm
Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch

Fire and Ice

2010-01-10T18:14:00.001-08:00

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

-Robert Frost

Mexican Soup

2010-01-05T19:45:00.000-08:00

This recipe comes from my dear friend Colleen and is dedicated to another dear friend Elisa. There can't be anything easier in the world to cook up but you would never know by the way it tastes - delish!

1 can refried beans (don't skip this - trust me)
1 can corn
1 can garbanzo beans
1 can pinto or kidney beans (I like pinto)
I can diced tomatoes
I cup salsa
1 cup chicken broth
1 Tbs cilantro, chopped
Ground cumin to taste

Combine all ingredients in a large pot. Cook over medium heat or until warmed through. Serve with shredded cheese, sour cream and tortilla chips. Yum!

I bet you can also make this in a crock pot, combining all the ingredients and cooking on low for 2-4 hrs depending. We like adding fresh cilantro and a squeeze of lime before serving (chopped avocado is good, too). Perfect for a winter evening...

Out With the Old...

2010-01-05T19:30:00.000-08:00

Last year we started a New Year's tradition. On the morning of January 1st we sat down after breakfast (crepes!) and wrote down things from the previous year we would like to forget (mistakes, bad memories, etc.). We then burn the pieces of paper in a bowl and proceed to write down things we wish to accomplish for the coming year. I dislike the term "New Year's resolution" because it sounds so daunting. A year is a long time and personally, my resolve to do anything often changes and morphs over time anyway.

Since this was the second year we have done this, we were able to pull out last year's wishes and share them with each other. The best part was reading aloud #1 on my list ("Find alternatives to yelling at my children") right after I yelled at Oliver for being rude and disruptive. Sigh. See what I mean about "resolutions"? But the truth is I actually did better this last year at finding alternatives - I didn't say I was going to yell at them less or stop doing so altogether, right?

Hercules is recruited into the celebration...

2010-01-03T17:08:00.000-08:00

Found when uploading photos from the camera (courtesy of Brahm):

And When I'm Eighty?

2010-01-02T23:07:00.000-08:00

Here's the non-related visual interest for this entry. I got dreadlocks a few weeks ago (still haven't washed 'em, Mark). Brooks posted his status update on Facebook as such: "Have a Christmas as big as my wife's hair". I obliged him with a photo (guest-starring my sister Lindsey).

What I really want to write about is how Brooks, the boys and I left the house today to go shopping. We returned three hours later to discover that I had forgot to turn the gas burner off on the stove and nuked an entire pot of split pea soup. The house was filled with smoke, of course, and stinks so bad that at this writing I am wearing a respirator mask to keep from getting a headache. And its been nine hours since we came home.

I'm mad. I'm mad because I've been working on that soup for days now, starting it from the bone of the Christmas ham. I'm mad because I thought I was ahead of the game, adding the remaining vegetables this morning so supper would already be taken care of. I'm mad because there goes a perfectly good pot. I'm mad because I'm only thirty-five and this kind of forgetfulness shouldn't be happening so soon.

Admittedly, I was trying to juggle a lot today. Now that the tile was done, I had been making a big push to finish the rest of the bathroom before the holiday break is over. The plumber was due any minute to set the toilet and I still had to finish cleaning the tile around it. I knew the boys would be getting hungry any minute (see how the soup would have been so handy?) so I dashed upstairs to cook up some cottage fries. Not about to make the same mistake, I ran back to spray the tile saying, "Don't forget the potatoes. Don't forget the potatoes." Well, I didn't forget the potatoes. But while I was downstairs, a dishtowel next to the stove caught on fire and in addition it set aflame a wooden spoon I had left on top of it. (Incidentally, why is it that I can't get a campfire going to save my life but can make a nice little marshmallow-roaster on my kitchen counter without even being present?)

"@#$%&!," I say softly as I come on to the scene.

"Mom, did you just say the @#&%&! word?" Brahm wants to know. He's in the next room playing a computer game.

"Yes," I concede, "but that's because the kitchen is on fire."

Oliver is next. "Just because the kitchen is on fire doesn't make it OK to say that word, Mom."

?!

OK, so maybe I should take a lesson from my mother. She is known to leave written reminders to herself scattered about her home so as to stay on track. This image (swiped from my sister Mindy's blog) serves to illustrate my point:

After today, here's what I'm thinking mine should look like:

A Yuletide Entry

2009-12-18T08:32:00.000-08:00

I told Brooks that I was going to finish tiling the downstairs bathroom for his Christmas present. Either that or I would finally clean up the Halloween decorations from off the front porch.

He opted for the bathroom.

Christmas represents a sort of dilemma for Brooks and I, two people who are challenged in the gift-giving area. In the beginning of our marriage we tried hard to please one another until we finally realized that giving and receiving gifts really isn't our thing. One year I thought I was really going to make him happy by putting down shoe base along the baseboard in what is now his office. He had been complaining for so long that the main reason that room got so cold was because of the gap between the baseboard and the floor. I recruited our neighbor's knowledge and tools to help me and did it while Brooks was at work so it would be an extra special surprise. "Wow, Jenny - that's nice," was his reaction. Nice?

What about the time I got him "How to Think Like Leonardo DaVinci"? It sat on our bookshelf unopened for years until I finally realized he wasn't reading it because 1) he doesn't like to read and 2) he already thinks like that. I gave it to the DI.

Admittedly Brooks has been better over the years at choosing meaningful gifts. He knows I'm a practical person so the bathrobe, the cookbooks, kitchen accessories, etc., have all hit the mark. Nonetheless, I know he's a procrastinator so the last minute running around only serves to stress us both out. What's the point in that? It made more sense the year he put it off so long that he ran out of time all together and got me no gift at all. "Hey," I said to him yesterday. "I bought your present for me today while I was at Spoons-n-Spice. I'll let you wrap it, though, if you want." This arrangement makes us both happy since I get the gift I want and he gets to forego the 11th hour madness.

Seven more shopping days until Christmas. Even though the tile is 90% done, I admit to still freaking out about giving him a gift he can unwrap on Christmas Day. I'll do the usual cruise through Barnes and Noble just in case this is the year he finally decides to start reading. There's a few eclectic shops downtown where I might find something to appeal to his dark humor. Neither one of us pretend anymore that unwrapping me will be very stimulating so maybe the bathroom is all he gets. I can just hear him Christmas morning: "That's nice, Love. Very nice."

Fall Back

2009-11-01T19:07:00.001-08:00

This morning the boys got in bed with me and we read Roald Dahl's "The Twits". I put on my best British accent for show and we stayed in our pajamas the whole time. That is what I did with my extra hour today.

2009-10-30T21:36:00.000-07:00

Highlights from the Historic Sandy Community Garden Pumpkinfest last month...

Alter Ego

2009-10-24T19:03:00.001-07:00

My friend Sacha popped in tonight and chastised me for not posting more often. Ok, it's true - I'm not as regular as I used to be. So in the spirit of keeping this blog going (and placating certain parties), I offer you a brief entry.

A few nights ago Brooks and the boys were bonding by way of some online interactive applications. One of their favorites takes the user's image via a webcam and, in real time, turns them into a Transformers character. They all have a good time - blah blah blah - then off to bed, right? Well, no one tells me that the application is still running when I sit down an hour or so later to check my email.

Not one to miss an opportunity, I strike a menacing pose for the camera and make a screen shot. This image could serve as some kind of disciplinary device to coerce my children into behaving. "Hey!" I'll hiss as they're fighting in Sacrament Meeting, "Remember what MamaBot does to little boys who hurt each other." Or perhaps I'll post it on the lid of the toilet seat as a friendly reminder. And then when they find themselves strapped to a rocket blasting off to the planet Nebulon, they can't say I didn't warn them...

Doll House

2009-08-30T18:36:00.000-07:00

We came home from a mini camping excursion yesterday to discover that someone had been in our house while we were gone. How did I know this? Well, there was the doll hand sticking out of the hallway junk drawer for starters. Then I notice a doll face pinned to each cup of my brassiere (which I notoriously hang over whatever door handle happens to be closest to where I'm undressing). The only person I can think of who 1) knows we are out of town and 2) can get into the house via the spare key is our carpenter. While he's been doing work on our house for over a year and is practically one of the family now, the thought that his sense of humor extends to playing with my underclothing kinda creeps me out. "Please, God - don't let it be Steve. His work is amazing and I really don't want to have to fire him over one little slip in judgment." To make matters worse, doll heads and appendages keep appearing everywhere I look - under the toilet seat, on top of ceiling fan blades, in the cold cut drawer of the refrigerator. This is one phone call I definitely don't want to make.

Let me fast forward a few minutes to the part where Brooks admits that he knew all along who has done it. In fact, he was in on it from the beginning. "Jenny, there are only two people in this world with a sense of humor bizarre enough to do something like this and they are both related to you."

"Lindsey!! And Vicki?" This is sheer genius, I have to admit. My sisters are very clever women but a joke on this level is unprecedented. I take my hat off to them for the forethought and creativity. I'm still discovering heads, arms, and legs in ice cream containers, sleeves of oven mitts, water-filled Kerr jars in the pantry and pockets of my hoodies.

They were practically in tears of laughter when I called them to offer my congratulations. I only have two things to say, ladies:

1) somewhere in Sandy there's a very embarrassed carpenter and
2) everyone falls asleep eventually.

Jeepers Creepers

2009-08-17T23:26:00.000-07:00

I think this photo speaks for itself.

2009-07-25T00:31:00.000-07:00

Amy Chamberlain is perhaps one of the smartest women I know. And I happen to be lucky enough to call her my friend. Among other things, she is a gifted writer by God-given talent as well as formal training. She is so gifted, in fact, that even her every day emails are fit for the press, though she would beg to differ. She lives with her husband and son Christopher in Dubai but comes home during the summer for a couple of months where she and "C" stay with her parents. The following is printed from an email with her permission (emphasis added) and finds a welcome place among the other entries on the humorous and hair-pulling realities of parenting.

"Times Tables Make for Good Times"

Because Christopher doesn't do any chores here at Grandma and Grandpa's, and because his overall work ethic is questionable at best, I am forcing him to learn the times tables this summer (also I should mention that his school has neglected this job thus far). C has taken to this activity with the same gusto that he'd take to having his fingernails pulled out. Our five-minute daily sessions follow the same basic emotional arc, which I will share here for your enjoyment:

Stage I: Anger. "I'm NOT going to sit here and learn these stupid times tables and you can't MAKE me." Duration: 30 seconds.
Stage II: Bitterness. "This is the meanest thing you have ever done to me." Duration: 15 seconds.
Stage III: Fleeting, Weak Effort. "I guess I can do this...I think 3 times 4 is twelve. Or something." Duration: 5 seconds.
Stage IV: Tears. "(self-explanatory)" Duration: 2 minutes
Stage V: Reluctant Acceptance. "All right. Fine. Let's hurry and get this over with so I can play my PSP. Show me the next card." Duration:2 minutes and 10 seconds.

Christopher, not to put too fine point on it, my friend, but what your mom has outlined here looks a lot like the five stages of grief. Having passed though these myself many times in any area related to math, I can confidently say that you are welcome at my fire anytime. Given, of course, that it generates enough light by which you can operate your PSP.

"I'd like to thank my family and friends..."

2009-07-01T21:08:00.000-07:00

One of my very favorite cousins got married last weekend so I drove to California with the boys to participate in the festivities. It turns out that the reception was held at the home of Keith Merrill who happens to be an LDS filmmaker. Most of you won't know this but I knew Brooks would so I called him to brag.

"You'll never guess whose house I'm pulling up to right now," I say feeling smug.

Showing off his superior person's knowledge of cinematic trivia, he replies, "Well, just make sure you get to see his Academy Award before you leave."

It's his nonchalant tone that gets me. He knows I have no connections to make such a personal request so I immediately put my Great Brain to the task of pulling it off. Within fifteen minutes I had found, photographed, and emailed the proof to him.

"Check your email," I say in triumph over the phone. His hearty laugh sounds in my ear a moment later.

Winkel:1 Briggs:0

Top 10

2009-06-20T21:18:00.000-07:00

...for the last four weeks (in no particular order).

1. School's out! Jenny in denial; continues drop-off and pick-up schedules as usual.

2. Angi visits from Seattle to meet baby Emmett. Amy and Enzo would complete this picture.

3. Brooks goes back to work full-time, wears black. In show of solidarity, Jenny wears [new] black [dress from Nordstrom], too.

4. Buy Greek tortoise. Lose Greek tortoise in backyard. Find and lose tortoise three more times. Dumb pet owners. Smart pet.

5. Send boys to room to mate socks as punishment for fighting. Found not mating socks (but not fighting, either).

6. 6/17: White House schedules visit for Secretary of Health and Human Services to Historic Sandy Community Garden! 6/19: White House cancels visit for Secretary of Health and Human Services to Historic Sandy Community Garden!

7. Surprise pre-dinner visit to archery range orchestrated by Brooks. Jenny over-dressed. Brooks emails post-date JPG next day:
"Hmm... what new activity could I schedule that would require Jenny to wear a black dress while wielding a deadly weapon?"

8. Bad news: record-breaking rain floods into new basement twice. Good news: affects only unfinished bathroom. Concrete floors and old towels make for easy clean-up.

9. Jenny chokes on chicken wrap. Carpenter on hand to perform Heimlich. Itemization in next bill reflects service.

10. Bought $6 Lucky jeans at DI. Find $6 in pocket. Now that's lucky.

2009-05-16T21:56:00.001-07:00

This is a note attached to a Mother's Day gift from Oliver. The irony here is that the paper pad is printed with the phrase "Kids Love Mom". Yet when allowed to speak for himself...

"You are kind to me, Mom. I love you (at least sometimes)."

Im 99.999% Sure He's Hetero

2009-05-06T20:56:00.000-07:00

And let me just say for the sake of clarity that if he wasn't, it would be OK with me. I'm just sayin' that based on mounting evidence, Oliver Briggs is the girl-likin' type o' guy. (If you're easily shocked, want to believe that boys don't notice girls until at least twelve, or are Brahm or Oliver's grandparent, don't read this.)

Take last week for instance. Brooks and I are sitting at the kitchen table when Oliver walks out of the bathroom with his head buried in one of my "Self" magazines. It's a health and fitness periodical so my curiosity is piqued as to why a five-year-old would even bother to notice it. Brooks, being male himself, is more clued in than I.

"Hey, Oliver, what are you reading in there?"

Barely looking up he answers, "Poems. This magazine has poems."

(The last time I checked, there were no poems but, hey, I could have missed one.)

Brooks leans over and says quietly into my ear, "That is the equivalent of saying, 'I only subscribe to Playboy for the articles.'"

The light goes on. The pages are filled with beautiful women with beautiful bodies barely covered with their fancy-pants exercise outfits.

"Riiiiight." I whisper back with a knowing nod.

Using one of the parenting tools from my vast collection, I distract him with a savory morsel of food while gently removing the magazine from his hands saying something vague like, "Here - have a bite to eat while I put this away for you." No shame, no struggle, there you go. (My subscription is now stored up high in a closet).

You know, it's possible that Brooks misinterpreted Oliver's intentions. After all, I did spy some haiku in a similar style of magazine not two months ago. But then there was that incident today in the back seat of the car coming home from a soccer game. Oliver was blurting out, "Boobies, boobies, boobies," over and over again. But maybe I'm reading more into that, too, because when I asked him why he was saying it he simply answered,

"Booby traps, Mom. Booby traps."

So true, so true...

2009-05-05T10:13:00.000-07:00

Last week Oliver and I pushed our cart into the gardening section of Home Depot. On our way in, we passed a woman who was walking out in a big huff, ranting loudly about not getting her way, incompetent employees, etc., etc.

"Sheesh!" I mutter to Oliver. "Some people get so grumpy!"

In all earnestness he replies, "You mean, like you?"

Kind of Blue

2009-05-03T20:11:00.000-07:00

This is the title of a compilation of jazz tunes from Miles Davis. If you're a fan, you already know this. If you're not yet converted, check it out. It's also the title of today's blog entry because — well, read on.

My sister Lindsey emailed the family last week to say that she is adding a new feature to her blog (www.louloubelles.blogspot.com) called "Ask Lou". It's an advice column of sorts. So immediately a reply came asking Lou how to beat the blues. Without waiting for Lindsey to answer, my other sister Amy sent the following response (which I am cutting and pasting with her permission).

"I'm not Lou..but I have a few ideas to beat the blues...because I get them too!!
. sing the blues
. listen to the blues
. aquatherapy..take a bath, shower, go swimming, drink lots of water
. exercise
. do something nice for someone
. donate something
. send a small monetary gift to a charity
. organize some small area like your purse or dresser drawers
. go on a small spontaneous adventure somewhere you've never been
. make a christmas tree ornament
. do something purposely embarrassing like circling the free food sample loop at Costco two or three times
. get lost in a book
. close the curtains and run through your house naked ...dancing and singing to christmas music.
. heliotherapy...lay in the sun for a little while
. Pray in a new way that you haven't tried...ie; skip the traditional opening and closing words and see what comes out.
. don't watch the news for a few days
. where yellow....even if it doesn't look good on you
. Tell the people you love...that you love them!!
. knock on your neighbors door and ask if you might borrow just a small squirt of hemmorhoid cream.
. put a few things in your recycle bin
. make a necklace
. be free . enjoy your blues."

Other things that are blue:

•the walls of the room where I am typing right now (robin egg shell)
•Brahm's eyes
•the cover of my journal when I was nine
•the house one block east (cerulean)
•October - "Into the Ocean" on my playlist
•my bathrobe
•the big jar in the kitchen holding bright yellow tulips – thanks, Lindsey!
•the following photos:

Lindsey (left) and I in 1998

Oh, 1978 or so - I'm guessing it's Easter by the dresses my sisters and I are wearing (I'm the one on Mom's hip).

Brooks outside the $400/month basement apartment we rented our first year of marriage. They must have been going for about $1/ft2 that year...

PMS-O-S

2009-04-21T20:22:00.000-07:00

I must be premenstrual because the past couple of days I've been craving chocolate like mad, I snap a lot at Brahm and Oliver, and every little thing gets on my nerves. No calming self-talk, relaxing bath or long bike ride can snap me out of it, either. Therefore, I know it's hormonal.

Take tonight, for example. I asked Brahm five or six times to do his homework and every time I went to check on him, he was doing anything but; Oliver was chasing his chicken through the house ("Fluffy stays outside, Beavis!"); tried unsuccessfully many times to get both boys to eat their dinner, wanted to get the yard cleaned up for when my parents visit tomorrow; made mental note to pick up drip tape for community garden tomorrow morning all the while trying not to forget Brahm's Science Fair project is due next week.

"Mom, I'm hungry!" Brahm complains.

"You know why you're hungry??", I snap sarcastically.

"But I ate all my dinner."

I look at his plate and see that it's true. "Fine, I'll make you some nachos. While I'm doing that, please go in and finish your homework."

I put the nachos under the broiler then go in to see if he's actually doing it. No, he's absorbed in his Bakugan.

"Brahm!"

"But Dad said he'd come in and help me with the last five problems!"

Ugh. Brooks had left to go check in on a neighbor of ours who is going through a divorce.

"Look, I'll help you with them then." I say impatiently.

We finish the rest of it before it occurs to me that while we're at it, it wouldn't hurt to make some headway on his science project. We go to the computer, log on to NASA's website and begin to discuss the laws of aerodynamics. Oliver comes into the room and suddenly feels energized by the topic. He starts talking over me about drag, lift and thrust all while I'm trying to explain it to Brahm. Meanwhile I hear Brooks come in the front door and go to the kitchen. Soon he's talking to me, too, right in the middle of a sentence.

"Jenny?" Pause. "Jenny?"

I snap.

"I'm sorry but I can't talk to you right now." I boom. "As you can see, I'm trying to help Brahm with his science project and I can't talk to two people at the same time!"

Another pause.

"OK. But your nachos are on fire."

---------------------------------------

Two hours and one very stinky house later, the boys are in bed and we're crashed on the couch.

"Does my hair stink like smoke?" I ask him, holding up a strand under his nose.

"Jenny, there isn't one part of our house that doesn't stink like smoke right now."

Long pause.

"You know, it's hard being a woman with PMS!" I complain, feeling sorry for myself.

Without skipping a beat, he adds, "Yes, but not as hard as being a man who is married to the woman with PMS."

(Final mental note: after drip tape, pick up new smoke alarm for kitchen.)

Meet the Aunties

2009-04-12T20:02:00.000-07:00

On our way to California, we stopped in St. George to visit my paternal grandmother. Also in town visiting were two of her five daughters, Pug (left) and Linda (right). They both live in California but were in Utah to celebrate Grandma's 87th birthday so it was my good fortune to be able to visit with them as well.

Pug's given name is Rosemarie — "Rose" after her mother and "Marie" after Rose's good friend. But ever since I can remember she's been Pug, or even more so, "Puggy". When she was a girl her nose upturned in a pug and the name has stuck ever since. I remember as a child going to her house and swimming in the pool, picking apricots off her tree and watching Sesame Street with her kids, all of whom I adore still as my most favorite cousins. Pug will tell it like it is so if you don't really want to know, don't ask. But this is one of the things I love about her. Another is that she would go to the ends of the earth for the good of her children (she has six) and they all adore her. Common sense is what she has most of with some to spare. And if that weren't enough, when she sings she has one of the most melodic voices you'll ever hear. When it was time to pack up and leave, Pug and I lingered in the driveway with so much still to talk about that I wished we had at least one more day together. "A good shot in the arm" is how my mom describes her. I think that pretty well sums it up.

Linda is the firstborn of the family, almost two years in front of my dad in. Interestingly enough, "Linda" is not her birth name either. "Ruth Ann" is the name on her birth certificate but grandpa announced her to the world as "Linda" at her baby blessing so "Linda" it's been ever since. Actually, it's "Auntie Linda", never "Aunt", a title perhaps too dry and formal for her carefree and zany personality. "Yoo-hoo!" she used to call when she stopped in to visit. "Howdy-doody" is also another signature expression. Like Pug, there is nothing she would not do for her children who all remain very close to her as well. For as long as I can remember she's had a head or rich auburn hair, always styled just so. And speaking of "just so", that's one phrase she uses to describe how she likes things. This is evident in the fact that her house is always clean. Furthermore, $10 says she'll hate this picture because the shutter snapped before she had a chance to flash her best smile. If Linda's not working a shift up at the hospital or spending time with her family, you know she's off to a Tom Jones concert with a girlfriend or scoring big at a garage sale. It's impossible to be with her and not burst out laughing at the stories she tells (and trust me, she always has a good story). I like how down-to-earth she is. What I admire (maybe envy?) even more is her ability to choose happiness. She doesn't seem to be as fragile as I sometimes feel when the chips are down — her self-respect and sense of humor ensure that she comes out on top every time.

"So, What Do You Do All Day?"

2009-04-09T21:06:00.000-07:00

One of the things I relish about my job is the variety. I know this contradicts everything I've written about the routine and monotony of being Resident Project Manager. Nonetheless, both statements are true.

Take this week, for example. It's been hectic because we just got back from a week-long vacation in California the night before Brahm's eighth birthday. Taxes are due next week and I'm still trying to dig my way out of the paperwork I need to prepare for the accountant. I got a call from a local PR firm to see if I can do a photo shoot on Friday, there are two work parties to organize for the community garden and my sister Vicki's first baby made his debut yesterday. And on top of it all, the boys are out of school for spring break. Phew!

But what I really wanted to put down on paper is that while I was on the phone yesterday trying to work out some confusion over the shoot, I swear some little boys in the hallway outside my door were knee-deep in a scheme involving our new chickens and the laundry chute. What more can I say?

2009-03-24T21:54:00.000-07:00

Dear Brahm,

Here’s my initial offer:

1) You lose your [eye] teeth then write a note asking me to bail you out.

2) I give you “lots of money,” but you keep the teeth. However, I will own a percentage of them, which I hope to sell later to cover my initial investment.

3) Let’s say you give some of the money to your brother, mom, and dad as “retention bonuses.”

4) I respond by taxing back 90% of aforementioned bonuses.

5) You thumb your nose at me.

6) As a result of your actions, now ALL of your family loses their teeth. And I run out of money.

7) Everyone starves (but are toothless and can’t eat anyway).

8) You blame me.

So, if you’re good with that scenario, then yes, you can keep your teeth and I will pay you “lots of money”.

Sincerely,

Ye Toothe Faerie

2009-03-23T07:39:00.000-07:00

This Week's Top Ten

2009-03-16T21:26:00.000-07:00

(in no particular order...)

1. "Henry Poole is Here" starring Luke Wilson. (Loved him first time I saw him in X-Files episode playing buck-toothed vampire sheriff. What's not to love about that??) Rent it at Redbox.

2. Brahm (after I nuzzle his face): "You have a scratchy chin."

3. Oliver rescued from under two-ton cast iron bathtub by father. Got stuck doing dusting chores. Mother callously snaps photo for blog.

4. Jacuzzi soak after Saturday's long run.

5. Arrival of three chicks to backyard farm. Welcome Buffy, Fluffy and Ozymandias (Ozzie for short).

6. iPod died. Covered by extended warranty Brooks had foresight of purchasing. Yay!! Target gift card arrived in mail today. No more boring workouts.

7. Inadvertent combination of magnet and fridge reminder:

(Prize for best caption.)

8. Sleeping in on weekends. Brahm old enough to forage for breakfast! (note to son: Bozo-stained smile gives away Crystal Light packets. Try odorless, colorless cold cereal instead).

9. Buy-One-Get-One-Half-Price coupon from The Philadelphian hole-in-th -, I mean, "restaurant". Lunch date, Matty?

10. New Nathan Fillion dramedy on ABC. Move over, Lost! (Sawyer - I'll call you, OK?).

So, It Finally Happened

2009-03-06T21:41:00.000-08:00

Deciding when and how to bring the facts of life to your children's attention is always a delicate issue. If it's too delicate for you, then you can skip this entry. If not, read on.

Don't be mislead by the title of the entry. It's been a couple of years since Brahm and Oliver found out the mechanics of human reproduction. That's not what we're talking about here. Having those conversations was not as confounding as how to bring up the subject of pornography with them. It's tricky because you know they are going to see it sooner or later - there's nothing you can do about that - so the question is how to prepare them for when that happens. Just how do you do that without describing exactly what it is they are supposed to be avoiding? After consulting some parents who've been in the business longer than I have, I decided on a simple approach.

"Guys, if you ever see pictures of naked people, look away and come tell me and Dad about it."

Look, it's not airtight but it's a good place to start. Yes, we had some false-starts while perusing art history books or watching public television but overall it seems to be a pretty sound rule of thumb.

Last week when we had parent-teacher conference, the principal discreetly took Brooks aside to tell him that Brahm and a friend had come across a catalog of adult toys in the school yard. He didn't know how explicit it was or if Brahm had seen much of the contents but apparently Brahm took it to the yard duty and she relayed what had happened to the principal. He just thought we would probably want to know.

In the car on the way home Brooks opens up the dialog with, "Hey, the principal told me you did a really great thing on the playground last week by bringing that magazine to the teacher on duty."

I love this about Brooks. He's so subtle and nonchalant about a topic that could have other parents really nervous or worried. I also notice that he makes it a positive thing by praising Brahm on his actions, making that the focus of his statement. I was surprised that Brahm opened right up and told us all about it in a matter-of-fact way, like he could have been describing class lecture on war heroes or something. I find his attitude interesting and conclude that kids don't really have the overlay of taboo and social implications about the issue unless it's been given to the by their caregivers. In other words, if in the beginning Brooks and I had approached the boys with a fearful attitude about the subject and had overreacted in regards to the affects porn can have, Brahm might have interpreted the incident with more of a negative filter and perhaps it would have impacted him more in a harmful way. As it was, he didn't seem to give it much thought beyond what we talked about in the car.

Or so it seemed. There's a lot of different directions exposure to pornography can take a child. I'm well aware of all the statistics out there and being a mom of boys, this is a subject I worry about, of course. It's just that I've just decided that fear is not one of the parenting tools I want to use beyond its natural usefulness when we talk about things of this nature.

At least that's what I'd like you to think about me. The truth is I worry and fret about a long list of things in regards to my boys and I know it comes out in my communication to them. "Don't go outside the fence without telling me first!", "No, you can't go to the park by yourself.", "Are you clicked?" ,"Don't ever answer the door by yourself, OK?", etc.

Overall I'd like to think that I balance the fear with all the reasons why it's fabulous to be alive. One of the hidden treasures of parenting is that it's almost always an impetus for self-improvement: the more I feel at peace with the world, the more they will, too.

Abbreviated Miscellany

2009-03-04T20:07:00.000-08:00

• Parent-Teacher-Conference today for Brahm. I have great kid!!

• Discovered via article olive oil good make-up remover.

• Wind storm knocked out power before lunch. Oliver distressed. "No computer? No TV?"

• Bought Pilates band for lower body workout. Shnikeys! Effective.

• Hot tea w/soy milk before bed delish! Tonight: Celestial Seasonings' "Bengal Spice".

• Spring not kind to Brooks' hayfever. Sniffle sniffle.

• Loved Lost. Want to love Lost again. Sawyer still hot.

• Checked out stack of exercise magazines from library. Recession money-saving effort.

• Rescued homeless sweater from DI. $8 well-spent.

• Visual interest: wry husband.

Untitled for the Time Being

2009-03-01T07:53:00.000-08:00

Visual interest for today are some store-bought tulips I put in the bathroom window. Can I just tell you how much life they breath into a room? I think I can manage to squeeze $5 a month out of our budget for this kind of mental boost.
___________________________________

OK, two things:

First, Brahm, Oliver and I biked to swimming lessons last week. Brahm was on his own bike and Oliver rode the trailer bike that attaches to mine. He knows how to ride a bike on his own but when we go through traffic, I feel safer if he is with me. So before we got there, Oliver's chain popped off twice. This is irritating to me for two reasons: 1) I like to be on time and having to stop to put it back on slows us down and 2) it pops off either when he shifts too fast or doesn't pedal correctly in conjunction with the shifting. Not knowing which it is keeps me from helpig him correct the problem. This frustrates me to no end (plus I'm a grumpy mom anyway) so I say in exasperation, "Well, I guess you'll just have to take gear-shifting lessons from Papa." Though I try to mask it, I'm sure he picks up on the irritation in my voice and I feel bad. Kids miss so little.

Yesterday we biked to the pool again, this time just to swim for fun. Right out of the gate I'm having problems pedaling and I look down to see that my chain has come off my own bike. "Daaaah!" I shout to myself but Oliver is already tuned in. "Well," he chimes in cheerfully, "looks like you'll have to take gear-shifting lessons from Papa, too." Touche´, my friend.

You know, the thing about parenting is that either I think I know what I'm doing or I think I should know what I'm doing (even though the evidence to the contrary for both is continually mounting). That's what makes parenting so hard. If two little lives weren't at stake here, it would be easier to take my job less seriously. What I mean is, maybe I wouldn't feel so much pressure to make sure they turn out right if it weren't so important. At the same time, parenting is a paradox: yes, being a responsible parent is crucial and no, it doesn't all depend on me (and Brooks). Kids are who they are and the further along I go on this path the more it seems to me that my job is simply to cultivate the little seed that landed on my doorstep the day they were born. It seems so easy when I write it — what makes it so hard in practice? I guess it's expecting that I should always know how to coax the seedling along and remembering not to trample on it in the meantime.

Sigh.

All right. Well, the second thing happened yesterday as well. I told the boys when we came home from swimming that I had a surprise for them. At dinner they reminded me about it. Not only had I forgotten what they surprise was, I couldn't remember telling them there was one! Sheesh. Does dementia start this early?? I remembered it this morning, though, and here's what it was:

When the basement was dug out, we put it very shallow window wells (about six inches) around the newly enlarged windows. In the eleventh hour of fall, I decided to plant some spring bulbs in them with some help from my friend Matt. I didn't tell Brooks or the boys because I wasn't sure there was enough soil there for them to grow in the first place but if there was, I wanted them to be surprised by the blooms in the spring. Just a couple of days ago, I noticed some green shoots appearing above all the dead leaves that had collected in the wells over the winter. It worked! I was so excited.
Part of the delight for me is that right inside the window of the boys' bedroom we have created a reading nook. I imagine them all nestled up with a good book on a cold day where they can see the bubs in progress right through the glass. It would be a reassurance to them that warmer days are just around the corner. And on these kind of winter days (whether they are in January or June), I could use this kind of reassurance myself.

As I write it, it seems that raising kids and planting bulbs aren't that different from each other. Both require a certain degree of belief — belief that if I just do my best, God will take it from there. Seeing hope manifest itself in the spring season after season is a good reminder that that, like the bulbs, my boys are ultimately in Good hands, too.

Worth Mentioning

2009-02-27T09:17:00.001-08:00

My friend in the "WWSD?" entry asked me to make this clarification. The "I Accept It" technique is not meant to teach her kids they they must accept all of the bad things that have happened to them. It's a way in which she helps them to accept that there are rules to follow during their hospital stay, whether they feel like it or not.

Brahm Guest Blogs Today

2009-02-27T08:10:00.000-08:00

testing-testing,oh,it's already on.Hi I'm brahm jenny's oldest son.I'm seven years old.

[Now I'm having my dad type for me.] I like Legos and Pokemon. I have over 400 Pokemon cards. And I build really cool creations. I can build really good ships and I can have little people on the ships. I have of lots of Lego Star Wars, no Lego City, but I have some creator blocks too. What would be similar to grown-ups would be Megablox. Legos are still some cool building blocks. I enjoy having my friend Austin over to build Legos with me. He likes to build with my Lego Indiana Jones. I have Yoda and I have Storm Troopers and I have some clones too. I have rebels with their speeder and I have the Temple of the Lost Ark and the Boulder Chase (with the lost idol). I have only one Lego Aqua Raider and they are usually not sold now. But there is new Lego pirates and new Lego Power Miners. They have Lego racers and on Lego.com, someone made a Lego Pickachu!

I think that is cool! I have a Pokemon card called Pickachu, too. I have what it turns into, and its called Richou. [Jenny typing now] I have the Pokemon Dusknoir and it's first stage, second stage and Dusknoir itself is the third stage. I have two Steelix. My favorites are my high levels like Jirachi ex and I have levels that are like "ex" but are "level X". I have six of those. They are called "Dusknoir", "Gardevoir", "Regigigas", "Darkrai", "Mewtwo" and "Mesprit". My favorite are "Gyarados", "Magnezone", "Aggron", "Garchomp", "Ampharos", "Bellossom", "Kingdra", a Japanese "Nidoqueen", "Swamper" and "Torterra" and "Gengar". Those aren't all of my powerful Pokemon. I also have a "Machamp". It is really old. It is very strong. I have some wacky Pokemon names like "Wooper" and another weird one is "Numel". I have a really weak Pokemon. It has one life. It is called "Mysterious Fossil". It is a trainer. And I have a Pokemon cousin named "Phione" and it has another person named "Manaphee". They both look alike. They have a red jewel on their chest. I have a Pokemon that's similar to an ancient fish named soelacanths. The Pokemon name is "Relicanth".

That is probably all I want my mom to write except for doing this for me [he hugs gives me a hug when he says this].

WWSD?

2009-02-23T00:49:00.001-08:00

I have a friend who works in a hospital with kids who have suffered some form of psychological trauma. When we talked a few weeks ago she mentioned a new technique she is using that helps the kids develop skills to mitigate defiance and resistance issues. You take a board game (Chutes and Ladders or Candyland, for example) and any time you land on a square with a consequence you don’t like, you simply say “I accept it”. The theory is that with repetition, this acceptance attitude will make it easier to let go of the small stuff in order free up your energy for more important matters.

The object of this game will make no sense to those of you who don’t mind losing or have no problem dealing with unlucky circumstances.

I, however, am not one of those people.

Anyone who knows me will agree that adjectives like “ambitious” “competitive” or “determined” are perhaps not quite strong enough to describe my personality. Look, I won’t even attempt to identify what makes us who we are — that's for the professionals. I will say this, however, and that is that my deepest fear is being powerless. It’s why I try to set the parameters for most every circumstance I might happen to be in. Some people call this "controlling". I like to think of it more as being prepared.

Saying, “I accept it” when something bad happens is admitting I screwed up, that I couldn’t anticipate the unexpected, couldn’t protect myself when it counted. It’s like standing around knowing I’m about to be pooped on by a bird and doing nothing to stop it.

•I race to be on time to a doctor’s appointment then wait 45 minutes only to leave before being seen so I can pick up Oliver on time. Splat.

•I didn’t click the “submit” button twice to make an online payment and get hit with a late fee, finance charge and a higher interest rate. Splat.

•Library fine for a book I didn’t lose. Splat.

•Brown hair when I told the stylist “Dark blonde, please.” Splat.

•Gain two pounds when I should have lost five. Splat splat.

Looking back, there was no one to show me the special way of playing Chutes and Ladders when I was a kid. Are you kidding? I had to learn my own set of survival skills and that acceptance phrase was definitely not in my repertoire. If I turned around and said, “I accept it” after getting my butt kicked on the playground, I’d have had ten more kids lined up waiting to take a turn. At home my motto was “I deflect it”: make it look like someone else did it then get the hell out.

“Why can’t you be more like Melanie Hamilton?” my mother would cry in exasperation. She’s referring to the demure gentlewoman who plays Scarlett O’Hara’s foil in Gone With the Wind, a movie staple in my house growing up.

Why? Why? I’ll tell you why. Yes, Melanie may have been the queen of accepting difficult circumstances (and with grace, to boot). But if it was left to her, everyone would have died at Tara after Atlanta. Remember that Union deserter? She thought she could fend him off with a sword that weighed more than she did. Hmph. And what about all that business pretending her husband wasn’t involved in a love affair? Good faith in those you love is admirable but in the end, denial never helped anyone. Then there's the part where she donates her gold wedding ring to "the cause” thinking it's going to make a difference for the South. Good heavens, girl! There's optimism and then there's reality.

That's where Scarlett comes in.

Mom, you can’t tell me “Gone With the Wind” is the number one movie of all time because of Melanie Hamilton! Scarlett was the one who birthed Mellie’s baby right before carrying them through a burning city to safety. It was Scarlett who kept the family alive on cotton earnings when they all would have starved otherwise. And whose pistol was it that took care of that deserter with one clean shot before Melanie even showed up? Yep, Scarlett’s. After the war, she made her comeback by starting up a profitable business then single-handedly restored Tara to its pre-war glory. Before the movie is done she survives an attack on her life, buries two husbands, both parents and a child. In short, the woman was a hero. (Now if you want to discuss her lack of scruples, empathy, maturity or selflessness, that's another entry...)

But I digress.

I know my therapist friend is sharing the “I accept it” technique because she knows I’m at a point where I could use a little more zen in my life. In other words, I’m getting too old to carry around so much piss-and-vinegar all the time. As with her kids in therapy, she’s just trying to show me all the energy I use up in defiance could be better spent elsewhere. And she’s right. Saying, “I accept it” is a simple way to end the battle before it even starts. No agonizing, no wrestling, no “if only I had….” Just, “I accept it” then move on.

There. That’s not too hard, is it?

Well... it was my persistence that reversed the late fee and other charges, a direct follow-up with the stylist that restored the blonde at no extra cost, a "stick-to-the-rules" deduction from the allowance that covered the library book and a little renewed determination to my exercise routine that will polish off the lingering holiday weight gain.

And while all of that is true, I haven’t given up on the zen thing. Not yet, anyway. I still try to meditate once a day, pick my battles when I can, go to yoga regularly and use visualization to clear out negative emotions. And while saying, “I accept it” still feels like getting pooped on, it doesn’t mean I can’t keep trying until it doesn’t.

After all, tomorrow is another day...

It's Almost Here

2009-02-16T20:49:00.000-08:00

I can tell spring is coming by the way the daylight is shifting. I'm not talking so much about the length of the day, though that, too. It's just the color, the direction, the intensity. It's one of the reasons people say, "Spring is in the air."

I have mixed feelings about spring which is odd since I'm one of those people who suffers through the darkness of the winter months. But even though that's true, winter is a wonderful hibernation of sorts, a respite from the planting, tending and harvesting seasons that come with warmer months. In the final weeks of February, I cling to the what's left of the break, knowing it will soon be over.

The visual interest today is a photo taken last summer of Brahm. He's holding some carrots he planted a few months before that. They are a fuschia colored variety we ordered from a catalog. I'd tell you the name but it escapes me at the moment. Each spring the boys pick out a few seed packets from the catalogs I like best (Seed Savers and Seeds of Change) with names that interest them: Sweet Chocolate and Golden Treasure peppers, Strawberry spinach, Mountain Sweet Yellow watermelon, Double Rich tomatoes and Ten Commandment gourds are a few among them. (Brahm still remembers with relish the moment Oliver bit into a Sweet Chocolate only to be horribly disappointed.)

I'll pull out my starter mix and heat mat here shortly, but not yet. I'll squeeze a few more long naps out of winter before it's officially over - and that's not for another month.

www.seedsavers.org for a variety of rare and heirloom seeds
www.seedsofchange.com for heirloom and organic choices

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heirloom_vegetable

Here's my top 10 list of heirloom tomatoes in no particular order

1. Cherokee Purple
2. Kellogg's Breakfast
3. Hillbilly Potato Leaf
4. Federle Paste
5. Green Grape
6. Dr. Wyche's Yellow
7. Wapsipinicon Peach
8. Radiator Charlie's Mortgage Lifter
9. Hawaiian Pineapple
10. Aunt Ruby's German Green

Oh, and the name of Brahm's carrot (I had to look it up) is Dragon. No wonder he added it to his list!

To Get You in the Mood...

2009-02-13T17:56:00.001-08:00

We don't celebrate Valentine's Day around here much in the same way we didn't celebrate Thanksgiving the first year we were married. FX was broadcasting a 24-hour X-Files marathon that day and there was like, noooo way I was going to miss that. I mean, come on — it's Fox Moulder all day. I made the mistake of thinking that Brooks would be happy with a rotisserie chicken from Smith's. Wrong-o. I finally caved and we went to his folks' that night for the real thing.

Fine.

But really — we don't celebrate Valentine's.

It must have been Brooks who set the tone early on in our relationship. We hadn't even been dating for a month when he presented me with a Valentine's gift. Bold move — or so I thought. On closer inspection, I was confused, no "troubled" is a better word for it.

See for yourself:

"poems about love
and other such things
by
master thespian

LEONARD NEMOY [aka Mr. Spock]
—for—
Jenny Winkel

edited [and appended] by brooks briggs"

Brooks Briggs, a man I hardly knew, had taken some awful poetry and inserted a few ad-libbed words of his own into it. He then presented the final product to me in the form of a hand-bound booklet. Hmmmm...

A peek inside, you say? Sure.

"I have learned again to trust myself
Sometimes...
It isn't easy
Sometimes...
Someone who seems to know
Someone who seems
to be wiser
Can convince me,
[that Fred on Scooby Doo
wasn't gay. But then
I watch it again, and I know
that he didn't wear ascots
Because they were cool.]"

Brooks and I came together more as an act of God than an active choice on our parts. He thought I was shallow and conceited (he was right) and I thought he was stiff and boring (because I didn't know him). He ran in intellectual circles and went to poetry readings, I put off Advanced Writing until my very last semester (a class he used to teach, no less), he loved discussing politics and current events, I thought NPR stood for "No Possible Refund" at ZCMI. He loved cycling and being outdoors, I preferred the small enclosure of a darkroom. He — soft and intelligently spoken, me — loud and opinionated. The only reason we were spending Valentine's together that year was because, after trying over and over not to go out with me, he finally gave in to Divine pressure and called me up.

(That and he thought I was hot.)

Take another peek:

"Love — from me to you.

My beauty — take my hand.
I'm so proud of you
The way people love you
The strength you offer
To those in need
[And the way you beat them
If they get too pushy about it]"

So, on Valentine's Day eve, ten years later I say to him, "Don't get me anything for tomorrow. I know you didn't but I don't want to be surprised. I didn't get anything for you and I don't want to feel like a jerk."

This sort of rhetoric pretty much defines a pragmatic relationship like ours. Is it because it's been ten years? Is it because we skipped the romantic beginning and went straight to "for time and all eternity"? Well, who knows. What I can say is this: even though I wasn't a fellow student in his grad program, I ain't no dummy neither. I don't care if Brooks married me because the Blue Fairy told him to, I'm runnin' with it.

Over the course of our marriage, Brooks has given me a fertile patch of soil in which to sink my roots and sprout, to discover the self I always knew was there but that just needed the right environment to grow. He listens, doesn't criticize, is patient, has a wealth of information in his brain, and is the only one who can calm my troubled waters. Brooks is the nurturing component of our parenthood, he reminds me that keeping perspective is essential, and was the one who finally told me that NPR is actually an acronym for "National Public Radio" - a station that is always on in the car when I drive.

OK, you have better things to do to celebrate the holiday so I'll finish here. Even though all of the above is true, what really sealed the deal in the end was that Brooks Briggs, from our very first date, made me laugh harder than I had in a very, very long time. From that moment I knew I never wanted to be without that feeling again. And if God could be so gracious as to make things work out between us, I would never let Him live to regret it.

Love does happen
like a touch
of grace

It falls
Into place
Where there used
To be
Empty space

When I hold your
face
In my hands
I ask
How did this happen
To me?
[I thought it was attached
Firmly to your head.]

A Tale of Two Teeth

2009-02-13T08:35:00.000-08:00

"And don't let Buck anywhere near that!" I say to Brahm as he disappears into his bedroom.

"Buck" is what the little grandkids call my dad. He and my mom are due for a visit and Brahm's tooth is loose. This is a bad combination. When I was a little girl with a loose tooth of my own, my dad would say, "Here, let me wiggle it just a little," then pop it out of my mouth before I knew what was what. Somehow he knew that I would be too stunned by what he had done followed by complete absorption in the tooth itself to be too mad. And he was right (though I still give him a hard time about it to this day). So, having given Brahm a fair warning, I go to bed that night resting easy.

A loose tooth is a milestone in childhood. You wait for your first one to give any sign that it's on the way out and when it does, you can’t stop fiddling with it. Brahm’s first tooth came out a few months ago by accident when he and his brother were wrestling on their bed. Now that the second tooth is loose, it’s a big deal since it’s the first time he gets to go through the process start to finish. Like most kids, he’s excited to lose it but he’s also afraid it’s going to hurt when it comes out.

“Why don’t you tie it to the doorknob with some floss then slam it shut?” This was a popular technique with me after I got wise to Buck’s method. Brahm pulls a face to let me know he won’t consider it. I try a more a humane approach, also drawn from my childhood. “You can always tie it to the ladder by your bed. That way, as you toss and turn during the night your tooth will be pulled out without you even knowing.” He’s definitely open to this one and walks away considering it.

That night he announces his decision: he wants to tie it next to the bed and asks me to do the honors. We’re all on hand to witness the spectacle: Oliver agog practically on top of him, me tying the knot and Brooks with the camera. Once it’s done, I say good night and ascend to the kitchen.

It’s half hour later, however, that I hear a commotion and not two second later see Oliver and Brahm rush into the kitchen, with Brooks a few feet behind.

“His tooth came out!” Oliver yells preemptively.

“Well?” I ask.

The boys are too busy examining the tooth so Brooks filled me in.

“Brahm said he couldn’t sleep because the string in his mouth was bothering him. I went to untie it but decided to wiggle it a little first. Before I knew it, I had pulled a Buck on him.”

“You did what?” I blurted, caught off guard.

He shrugged his shoulders a little and that was that. I looked over at Brahm who was happy and relieved so I let it go. He was obviously way too absorbed in the tooth to care.

Ode to Mr. Cupcake, Wherever He May Be

2009-02-10T20:44:00.000-08:00

Brian Cupcake is what Amy and I called this man that did landscape work at the house where we grew up . His first name really was Brian but the appellation was one we invented. He said that if we did not stop pestering him, he would dig a deep hole in the ground, fill it with water, throw us in and only feed us cupcakes made out of mud, snails, and rocks. I guess it wasn’t much of a deterrent because we continued to plague him with various “traps” — you know, the sophisticated “leave-the-rake-lying-about” sort. Once, we stretched my pee-stained baby blanket between two trees fully expecting him to walk into it to be tortured by the scent of urine (never mind the fact that the blanket had been washed many times between my diaper-wearing stage and the present kindergarten year). We tossed marshmallow berries all over the sidewalk so he would step on them and release streams of berry juice into his eyes, blinding him forever. Didn’t we have homework or something to do?

photo: Christmas morning, probably 1976. I'm in front with the infamous binky in my mouth.

I can’t recall a childhood memory that doesn’t include my sister. Amy and I were born sixteen months and exactly one week apart (she’s older) so we were always close as kids. In fact, people would often mistake us for twins even though we didn’t look a lot alike. Maybe it’s because our mother dressed us in matching clothes anyway. Maybe it was the (usually) long, blond hair or sun-kissed skin. At any rate, if it was hard to tell us apart, it was even harder to keep us apart. Together we caught polliwogs in mayonnaise jars; built tree forts; played dolls, of course (“Joy” and “Noel” were Christmas presents one year); wrote, directed and starred in our own salad dressing commercials; took gymnastics and voice lessons; and screened the same “movie” over and over in the coat closet (which involved a flashlight and some faded Wizard of Oz stickers stuck to the wall). Our bike treads were worn thin from all the trips to the liquor store where we spent our quarters on Muncho's potato chips and demi cans of 7-Up.

As we grew older, we did less and less together. In fact, it became more apparent that we were very different people. She retained her free-spirited nature while I grew more serious. I focused on getting grades and beefing up a resume for college while she lived more in the moment. I was athletic, she poetic. Her friends were older and listened to alternative music. I liked it, too, but Top 40 was more my style.

photo: from a family picture taken around 1986. Amy (in red) has already finished junior high, I still have a year left.

But even as our life’s paths diverged, I always felt her love for me. During one particular rough patch in high school, I found the following written on plain white paper and slipped under my bedroom door (copied just as it is written):

I know how you feel
And if fudge had no fat
I would make you a bunch
And I’ve give you just that.

I’d send you some flowers
but in time they would wilt
And I can’t send you fudge
Cause of fat grams guilt.

I would give you a call
But my room's next to yours
And I could tell you I love you
By yelling through doors.

And the flowers would die
But my friendship would never
And the fudge is too fattening
And a phone call’s not clever.

But I wish you were happy
So I wrote you this letter
So you know I’ll be here
‘Till your problems are better.

As sisters do, we had our fair share of fights. When we were kids we had the knock-down, drag-out, hair-pulling kind. As teenagers they mostly took the form of arguments, hurt feelings and petty disagreements. But at the end of the day, whether I was six or sixteen, if I was too afraid to fall asleep by myself, I knew I could share a pillow with her.

We spent the first couple years of college in the same state but it wasn't long before our paths split again. She picked up and moved to New Orleans where I visited her once. I tried not to seem too out of place when she took me down to Bourbon Street one Friday night. I was a buttoned down BYU undergrad (and looked it, too), she a carefree artist out having a good time. "Hey, Sugar!" handsome men would call to her. "How about a little chocolate in your vanilla world?"

photo below: on my wedding day, July 1999

I didn't see or hear from her much after that. Whenever she did come to visit, everyone got excited. Her tales were so full of hilarity — impossibly mad capers she lived to tell about. If anything will get Amy by in a pinch, it's her sense of humor which is unrivaled in our family. And there's no one I know with more compassion for complete strangers than my sister.

After Louisiana she lived in Alaska for a time, then on to Illinois where she finished her degree. Eventually she moved to Boston where she met her husband and lives today.

I had a message on the answering machine Monday morning to tell me their first baby, a boy, had been born. "Hi, Jenny - it's Amy. I'm just calling to say that I had my baby all natural," she began. "And [he's] sooo cute," she cooed into the phone. I wish I was there and could see her. I wish I could pick up her sweet little beeb and whisper into his ear to tell him how much he is loved and about the wonderful childhood that awaits him. I can only hope his memories will be as rich as mine. With such a beautiful woman for a mother, I can't imagine it otherwise.

I Feel Robbed (Then Something About Ants)

2009-02-04T15:48:00.000-08:00

I just shelled out $160 at OfficeMax to stock our printers and fax machine with ink cartridges. There has to be a better way! I'm asking any of you (whether you know me or not) to please leave a comment if you know of any online suppliers (or other venues) that you have used to get ink for less. Thank you!

To make up for the boring entry above, I'm adding some visual interest for the day which is a small colony of harvester ants. The boys got the ant habitat for Christmas two years ago but I only got around to ordering the actual ants last week. In my defense, I originally ordered them that same year but they arrived too early and would have died if we had waited until Christmas day. Instead we made a habitat with sand and a Kerr jar. It worked fine but of course was not nearly as cool as this one. This one is a clear container filled with a sugary gel which the ants both eat and tunnel with. Attached at the bottom is a lighting unit so the whole thing can be illuminated as shown. The truth is that Brooks and I are as into it as the boys are! It's so fascinating to watch the colony work together and to follow their progress in burrowing the tunnels.

You can go to http://www.antsalive.com/antworks.htm to order both the habitat and ants. The housing is $21 (we paid $30 at a local shop) and the ants are $5 (including shipping when ordered alone).

No, Seriously...

2009-02-03T19:28:00.000-08:00

"Do some dads get children then make the woman leave?" Oliver asks. We're in the car together on the way to an appointment when he asks the question. It catches me off guard because it seems to come out of nowhere — that and it's phrased a little peculiarly, too.

"Do you mean, do some men get married just to have children then make their wife move out when they finally have all the kids they want?"

"Yeah."

I'm suppressing a laugh, something I have to do often in this business. I try hard to make our home a place where open discussion can take place, where the boys feel free to ask Brooks and me anything. In fact, once I came out and said as much to them: "If you have the courage to ask me, I will have the courage to tell you." I said, referring to things they might hear at school but are too embarrassed to bring up. I had no idea my words would produce such instant results. Oliver comes straight up to me with his middle finger extended horizontally to the floor and says, "Did you know this is a swear word?" He is in total earnest, I in total suppression.

I am loving the stage of life Oliver is in right now. He is so full of curiosity but at the same time hasn't been socialized enough to edit his questions and comments. This makes for some very lively discussions. Take today, for example, when he tells me he's glad he's not a girl.

"Why's that?" I want to know, already thinking of my own reasons.

"Because then they'll never have to cut my tummy open to get the baby out."

"Sometimes that's how doctors have to deliver a baby but most of the time it doesn't happen that way," I say, apparently persuading him that being a girl wouldn't be so bad after all (?).

"Then how does the baby get out?"

When I explain how that biz all shakes out, I can see by the look on his face that he'd rather have his stomach cut open.

OK, so back to the car conversation.

I want to give his question a thoughtful response but all that comes to mind are images of what a baby-hungry predator might look like. Is he white collar? Does he congregate in communities of like-minded dads? Does he live next door to me? Really, such a specimen of irresponsibility could be anyone. While I'm thinking of it, I add this as reason #798 to my list of why I should not have another baby.

"Well, Oliver," I begin, as I usually do. I then go on about all the different shapes and sizes a family can take, different divorce scenarios and child-custody arrangements. This goes on for a few minutes with me blah-blah-blahing and him politely listening when suddenly I stop.

I totally get where he's coming from now.

"Hey," I ask, a hint of accusation in my voice. "Are you wanting to know if someday I'm going to move out so you and Brahm can live with Dad all by yourselves, just the boys?"

"Uh-huh." he replies, sounding as if today might be a good one to start packing.

I see how it is. Well, I guess this time the joke's on me!

Not Now

2009-02-01T20:36:00.000-08:00

Three things I am currently avoiding:

1. Tiling the downstairs bathroom
2. Having a dental crown replaced
3. Going to bed

Fleshing Out the Script

2009-01-31T19:50:00.000-08:00

Things I have rediscovered lately:

• Pandora Radio at www.pandora.com
• "Jane Eyre" in print
• this photo I took of Paris in 1993
• robin-egg-shell blue
• the zen of fresh-cut flowers
• how hard Brooks can make me laugh
____________________________

A few years ago, my sister Mindy introduced me to a book called "What's So Amazing About Grace?" by Philip Yancey. I was taken by the author's candid treatment of grace and mercy, two virtues I felt the absence of in my own life. I read more of his books. In "Soul Survivor" he highlights ten or so people whose lives he considers to emulate true Christian discipleship, Gandhi, MLK Jr., Dr. Paul Brand, to name a few.

It was while reading this book that I realized I am not a Christian.

This revelation was a big bummer because my whole life I thought I was. Don't get ahead of me here before I can say that I'm not soliciting reassurance. Perhaps in my twenties I would have but as I get older, external validation is less and less important. I was relieved to find that I had no need to beat myself up for this either. At a point in life when I am making more deliberate decisions, this revelation was actually helpful. Read on and walk through this with me.

Christianity has been an inheritance of sorts. I live in a country steeped in Judeo-Christian culture. I was raised in a family where I learned Christian principles, was baptized and went to church every Sunday. I tried to forgive and forget, walk the extra mile and be kind to others. This all felt right. I had no desire to do harm to anyone, a clean conscience was important to me and doing good felt good.

So, I'm a Christian, right?

Perhaps I've been on auto pilot since then because what I've described above pretty much characterizes my life over the years. At least I thought it did. When I read Philip Yancey's book, however, I couldn't help but examine myself a little closer. Sometimes when I thought I was being loving I was only being nice. A gesture of service was in reality a duty performed with resentment. To forgive, true remorse on the part of the offending party had to be taken into careful consideration. My critical nature of others too often kept me from seeing my own faults. And didn't I relish a grudge now and then? (Yes.)

So, big deal. That pretty much describes just about everyone who I would still consider to be a decent human being (and naturally I'm only outlining faults fit to print). But the question I couldn't ignore was just how much of my heart, just what percentage of my soul, does all this comprise?

Well, pretty much most of it.

For me the two core teachings that summarize Christ's ministry are returning love for hatred and eliminating poverty/human suffering. I ask myself how much of my time is spent engaging in either of those activities? Not much. So what do I fill most of my time with? Well, if it's true that "where your treasure is, there will your heart be also", then it's safe to say that I'm more influenced by capitalist and individualist theologies than by the Christian one.

As principles, love and poverty elimination (i.e., giving freely of my possessions) resonate with me. In fact, they resonate very deeply. The reality is that when it comes down to it, both of those things are very very hard to do. I am compelled to acknowledge that I am limited by the smallness of my heart — that I care more about myself than anyone else. And the business of enlarging one's heart on one's own is so hard that, in fact, I believe it's quite impossible. In her book "Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith", Ann Lamott writes, "We don't transform ourselves." and I agree. That's God's work. So then how do I make the transition between where I am and where I could be? Or do I?

Hmmm.

So, acknowledging that I'm not truly a Christian may be a good place for Him to start. It has given me the space to realize that I actually have a choice in the matter (which feels funny even to write). Do I want to be or don't I? It's certainly easier to go on acting like it. Besides, who's really watching? What does it matter?

I guess the answer, whatever it might end up being, highlights the difference between a scripted life and a deliberate one. So far I'm leaning towards deliberate. But to me, "deliberate" doesn't seem to be the word that describes grace and mercy, the two things I need most to proceed.