I'm a Believer

Me = urgert, passionate, busy

Him = meticulous, controlled, calm



North and South



When we first got married I would tease him that it took him forever to wash the dishes...Gently tease because a girl would be a fool to critize a willing helper.

He, in turn, would tease me that I always missed stuff on the plates. The jest was only fair at that point...and true.



So we comprimised:
I wash the dishes quickly, and when he rises them, he'll send them back through if they don't pass the sanitation test.
Final Product:
Clean dishes real fast.



But I'm always getting things done fast. (Not always well, but fast)
And when yesterday came around, I was tired down to my soul
and it was only Monday.

I was sure that I had hours of work to do.
But I went to bed anyway.
Appartently my soul is a stronger force to be reckoned with than just my body.
My soul demands sleep while my body just suffers (that is until my soul pipes up.)



When I woke up this morning, I told myself NO MATTER WHAT
I will not be frantic today.





"Like Paul," I said.
"Try to be like Paul today.
See if it really works."
Because I've had my doubts...



10 minutes before school started:
"Hey, Rebekah, how are you?"
"Fine, you see, I am exerting every possible ounce of self-control I possess because I promised myself I would not be frantic today. How are you?"
Everything that HAD to be done before school started, got done.



A parent came in unexpectedly to observe.
No stress.
Okay, fine, that was a lie.
There WAS stress.
A lot.
But not as much.
Not as much stress (Brain Reagan voice again)



Couldn't find something for a lesson
(organized people shouldn't RE-organize too much.
It gets confusing.
I couldn't remember WHICH logical thought I used when I last made the decision about where to put that one thing away.)
But I stayed calm.
With the help of a minor Godly intervention,
I found it,
because I was still enough to hear the revelation.



And that belt/ girrdle/ stirrup/ tourniquet/ thing that makes the car keep working...
It broke.
Enter obscene amount of money here ---> $______.__
And it's okay.
Not peachy.
DEFINITELY not peachy.
But okay.



Because I hadn't been frantic so far.
Why start now?



And I have this feeling,
inspite of previous doubt,
That Paul's right on this one.
But the question remains,
Am I tough enough to try it again tomorrow?





And this has nothing to do, whatsoever, with my thoughts today except that Grandma B is the bomb.com.

I never saw a cuter witch. Though little Cousin Hailey was tough competition. Mother's bias, you understand.

I just really wanted to show you these...

See my tiny girl right there?


Some people have a gift.


My friend, Kristine (LuckyLimePhotography), shared hers with me, and now we have this beautiful part of our lives captured forever.

It still amazes me that my body did that.

And I can't wait/could wait forever/but mostly can't wait to do it again.

But I'm still pretty okay with waiting.

Maybe you know what I mean.

No, that's not just the photography.

He really is that good looking.


And, I'm still okay with waiting...for now.

Coulda. Shoulda.

I am not always sure these days what goes on my

Could Be Doing List

as opposed to my

Should Be Doing List.

It's tricky.

But rest assured.

I am ALWAYS DOING.

Sleep is viewed, foolishly, as an option.

WHY? WHY? WHY?

My day is full of prioritizing and re-prioritizing because what I thought an hour ago was a "had-to-be-done-thing" didn't actually get done. But that was then and this is now, and it's no longer the thing that has to be done. Except it does. Only not as much. Not as much need-to-be-done. (And that line can only be properly voiced if you have inserted the Brian Reagan skit about Cherry and Grape Favorites, keeping the tone and changing the words. Not important. Moving on.)

The point is, it's tricky.

All this juggling.

But sometimes, it's not. Because sometimes there is only one ball to juggle. And you named her Grace. Because Grace means strong, (and a million other things) and that's what she is. Your strength (and a million other things.)

And sometimes you pick her up from her Aunt's house because Daddy was at the dentist. And

the minute you see her, you know all she needs is a nap.

So you take her home. And love her up. And swaddle her like a tiny mummy because that's how she likes it. And you kiss her ears and nose and mouth and cheeks and head.

And then do it once more just for love.

And lay her in her tiny bed.

To sleep.

Because that's what she needs.

And then.

She screams.

A desperate yell.

You rush to her.

Pick her up.

And she immediately drops off to sleep.

Right there in your arms.

And a smile crosses your lips.
And a sigh rests your soul.

Because your Grace didn't just need a nap.

She needed to be Home.

And YOU are her Home.

And the privilege of being that tiny girl's Home fills you with gratitude (and a million other things).

So you sleep.

Together.

This time,

it's not an option.

And the Could Be Doing, and Should Be Doing Lists are perfectly clear.

You could be, and you should be, and you are

Home.

I. As in Me.

Yep.

I am still here.

But when I think about that I--- I realize how much it's changed.

That I has been stretched, molded, expanded, grown, and loved.

And that I teaches school, so that I has probably been hated for at least a few minutes, too.

But that I has a way of winning 'em over, so it's likely they were very short minutes.

Hopefully.

I sit here though---as this changed I---trying to conjure up something meaningful to say but the truth is, I'm worn out. All my creative energy has been used up today. But I had it this morning and it was used up on good good people. So I think that it's okay that it's used up.

One of those good people did get pretty mad at me today.

10 year olds aren't always reasonable---but lots of times they are, so I don't hold it against them. Usually. Besides teaching is good practice for mom-ing. Nothing like the real game, but remarkably good practice just the same.

Being a mom makes me love other kids more, too. It does.

I love them all more.

Because I know that some other mom like me is loving her kid, hoping the grown-ups that spend the day with the kid love her, too.

I'm the other grown up---And---I'm the other mom.

So I love those kids more.

For their moms. For me.

I didn't decide to.

It just happened.

Sometimes it's hard.

Working away from home.

It wasn't what I pictured doing, exactly.

At all.

But I'm sustained.

Just as I was promised in my heart I would be if I did this hard thing.

And you know what, I am happy.

Really.

Really I am happy.

And I am Really Happy.

I wasn't expecting that.

Also,

I am In Love.

With her.

And with him.

So maybe that's why I am happy. Really happy. Because when the day is done. They are mine. Still.

And even with all the change, the new I belongs.

She fits.

With them.

So----if your curious. Here she is.

And yes, that is my ultra-cool mom voice.

An Update

5 weeks old

A whole lot of very little has been happening lately.
And by that I mean that all of my time is completely engrossed in a very small array of tasks.

Feeding, changing, and sleeping a tiny baby.

Picking up the house, grocery shopping (occasionally), and checking up on the little rugrats that are currently running my classroom (which is relatively unharmed, mostly tidy, obviously busy with projects I designed (or stole from my dear friend Jessie) but smells like a different teacher.)

That's all I do these days.

OH!!!!

And sometimes I cook.

Sometimes.

(Sometimes I just wait for Paul to get home because that's the way we roll around here.)

Don't worry.

My lack-of-"wifely-perfection"-in-that-I-have-little-to-no-interest-in-preparing-food-but-NO-TROUBLE-eating-it has been thoroughly discussed with my doting husband.

He was well aware of my folly BEFORE he married me and to boot,

he LOVES cooking.

So this is a perfect arrangement for us.

In fact in a complete side note from the original intent of this post, when I "help Paul cook" I usually just do dishes.

He does what he's good at

and I do what I am good at.

Like I said.

Perfection.

The tiny girl is marvelous.

We have battled many battles both emotional and physical and the score as of today....

Trials - 4

Herricks - 5

So Boo-yah.

Reading one of my favorite blogs (cjane) the other day, she mentioned how loving your children can border on insanity.

Yes.

There is an ever present knowledge of the frailty of life when you have something that just the thought of losing leaves you with a weak stomach, a shortness of breath, a faint paralysis of limb.

I have so much to lose.

So much.

And it fills me with the most profound gratitude and humility,

and deep down,

horrific fear.

Fear of all the what-ifs, and could possiblies, and I-have-no-control-over-thats.

Fear that can only be met with faith.

That my sweet angel and her practically perfect daddy are mine forever.

And with that thought---and it is no "mere" thought, it is a thought that can only be believed when great spiritual work has been attended to---I go on feeding, changing, sleeping, cleaning, shopping, teaching, cooking (occasionally) and LOVING.

LOVING those two (and the many other magnificent people that I adore--if you think you're on that list, you probably are...if you think you MIGHT be on that list, you probably are)

with all that I have; trying to be more kind, more patient, more...everything that is good and better than who I am right now.

And thrilling more and more at the thought of collecting a few more tiny girls and boys.

Trailing Clouds of Glory

A Few Hours Old

She finally came.
Sandra Grace Herrick
August 11, 2010
11:18 p.m.
7 lbs. 14 oz.
20 in.
Mama's Eyes
Daddy's Mouth

And perhaps one day I'll write the story of her coming for others to read, but for now, the story is a very precious gift that to speak of it seems to undermine its beauty. So today I will hold it tightly and, as Mary so long ago, ponder it in my heart.

One Week Old

Happy Un-Birthday, Gracie

Your un-birthday was perfect Tiny Girl. Daddy went to work at 4 a.m. and I got a text from him at 5:15 a.m. to look at the sky. I wandered out to the back porch to watch electricity snag the blackened sky over and over again. The thunder shook you in my belly. It was magnificent, but not what you were waiting for.

A few hours after crawling back into bed, some of our favorite people in the world showed up, Aunts and Uncles and beautiful cousins and we sat around the living room and talked and laughed for a good long time, wonderfully happy to be a part of each others' lives. Eagerly hoping for you to join us. It was bliss, but not what you were waiting for.

So we went to Seven Peaks with Uncle B and Aunt A and J. The second we got there the rain started, then the lightning, so we blew that popsicle-stand and went to In-and-Out for hamburgers and fries. We laughed hard as Uncle B mandated that people over 45 who did not know the drill at said restaurant and ordered their hamburgers "animalized" should not be allowed to dine there. It was delicious and funny, but not what you were waiting for.

Daddy and I went to Walmart. I'm just glad of all the brilliant things that had happened yesterday, that's not what you were waiting for.

Late that evening curled up on the couch with a wonderful book, the rain plummeted down, the lightning scratched the sky, and the thunder rocked the windows. We opened up the whole house to the glory of that storm. I sat at the screendoor and watched the clouds curl in all different shades of blue and black, and joined my three great big tears with the rain, because of all the days I would have liked to have given you for your birthday, surely I would have picked this one. It was enchanting, but not what you were waiting for.

So the storm passed, and the trash from the burgers was taken out, and we're going back to a sunny Seven Peaks in just a few hours, and while I'm really quite content to wait, I wonder what is the glory that will bring you here to me that you are waiting for?

His and Hers

This is what Paul and God grew this summer, right next to what me and God grew this summer. Though clearly what he grew had way more exposure to the sun than what I grew. Sun exposure or not, they're both beautiful if you ask me.

This baby could be here any day now. I am officially one week away from my due date. There is progress for sure, but not necessarily the progress that says she'll be here tonight, it's the progress that says, Don't worry brain, I've still got this thing under control. Yes, she'll come but don't hold your breath. It's that kind of progress. Which is manageable most days and then other days you about go out of your mind because the "progress" makes you pack the hosiptal bag and then the "progress" leaves you with nothing to do but worry about all the stuff you still don't know. And you think to yourself, I had nine months to prepare for this day, why do I feel like I have no clue what to expect!?! So you do what every rational woman has done, I'm sure, since the dawn of time.

You cry.

Maybe you had days like that? If you didn't than neither do I. I am just saying it wouldn't surprise me if that's how a different woman might react. But not me. I am way above being overwhelmed by something as routine as child birth.

or not...



And that's Josh eating what Paul and God grew.

Ruger. It's the dog's name.

"If you so much as set foot downtown, you will be sorry. I am in a prayer circle with the DA. I am a member of the NRA and I am always packin'."

"Whatchu packin'? .22? Little Saturday Night Special?"
"Yep. And it shoots just fine every other day of the week too."

-Blindside

A little .22 Ruger.

We named the dog after it.

The future dog, that is.

That is IF we ever have a dog, its name will be Ruger.

The trouble is, I don't really like dogs.

The smell, the hair, the....well I can think of a few more things I don't like about them, but lets keep this polite. The point is, RUGER is perhaps the coolest name for a dog EVER.
It reminds me of the fact that Paul wanted to name our first daughter Baretta. In similar fashion.

That idea was dismissed.

Immediately.

But it's a funny idea.

And FAR better/more appropriate than some of the other names my sweet Paul has come up with...
--------
An entire shooting excursion was planned this morning around this puppy right here.

My dad lent it to Paul for his birthday. He was happier than a dog at the duck pond.

Funny thing is, at 9:30 this morning, I got a phone call from the other side of the lake with a dissapointed confession that it had been left at home. I glanced up at the top shelf of the closet, and there it sat in all its weighty-ness.

I saved the day by driving it clear to the other side of the lake, where the motly crew met me at the car door with great enthusiasm. The entire way there I wondered how the conversation would go if I got pulled over.

Um, yes officer, I was speeding. You see, my husband needs this handgun I have sitting here on the front seat.
......
What does he need it for? Officer, com'mon. It's a Glock. Just SAYING it makes a man feel powerful. YOU know that.
......
Thank you officer, I knew you'd understand. I'm sure your wife would run out the door to bring you yours too.
......
Why yes, officer, I am. 37 weeks and 1 day. Just waiting to pop.
.......
I probably won't but I'm sure her daddy will teach her to shoot just as soon as he can.
......
You have a wonderful day too.

Upon arrival, I encountered "The Spread."

1 Rifle.

3 Shotguns.

2 Pistols.

As the hero of the day, I was honored with the first shot from the Glock.

I look like I am trying to shoot it and hide from it at the same time.

I am.


But I got more comfortable as the morning progressed.

Isn't he hott?

Happy Birthday, Paul. From me, my dad, AND Ruger, our future dog.

Maybe.

But whether he actually becomes a member of the family or not, his name is RUGER.

P.S. Does it surprise anyone that this is Paul's most recent, favorite song?

P.P.S. My mother would like it made perfectly clear that my dad purchased both a Ruger (though not the one featured here) AND the Glock for her. Which is a funny story that maybe she will grace us with on her blog one day.

The Education of Herrick Men

There's something wonderful about the 4th of July in Provo. Here, it is an EVENT. Everyone MAKES something of it. There is so much to do and even if you just do the bare minimum (which was my style this year,) it is grand. And because I am married to a Herrick, it was also (as it is every year since I became a Herrick) an adventure in fire.

But first, Gracie and I were very patriotic together.


We need to teach Daddy to take magnificent pictures of us.... The whole mirror thing is sub-par unless you learn how to make it look artistic.

The evening of the 3rd started out with Ice-cream Sundays, then we packed Josh's Stroller tighter than a Sherpa's burden, and walked to our very most perfect firework watching spot. The spot where the ground shakes and noise deafens and the soul soars with glory.

And reverence. Experienced by the very old and the very, very young.



But of course, I forgot the part where we were anything BUT reverent. The part where other mothers found it imperative to warn their children about behaving like us. You see my brother-in-law, Rob, got this great idea that sparklers could be held and enjoyed from one's mouth.


At which point I leaned over to my sister-in-law Alli and whispered, "Do you see what I have to teach my boys NOT to do one day." She laughed until she realized her boy Josh was already being educated.... and she knew her task at hand.

And then to no-one's surprise, Paul joined his brother Rob. Of course. They're Herricks.

Not a second later did a women whose boys were also being "educated" by the Herrick Men voice her opinion in a line that I'm SURE was intended more for the Men than her sons said, "Don't you ever, EVER, EVER do THAT. EVER."

And that became the catch-phrase of the weekend. Everything those Herrick Men did that maybe they shouldn't have was proceeded by the words, "Don't you ever, EVER, EVER do THAT. EVER" and then they did it.


Like on Sunday, when we embraced once again, the yearly tradition of lighting our own fireworks.

Herrick style.

Because it's not enough to just buy a whole bunch of gun powder encased as a toy and just light it.

No no.

This is an opportunity for Herrick Men (and I should not exclude my own brother, Blake) to pull out their MacGyver skills. To properly enjoy the holiday, they must make all sorts of tripods to strap the fireworks to, and then they must create make-shift fuses so that one firework lights the next firework in a chain reaction meant to compete with the Stadium of Fire itself. It gets to be a pretty hefty looking contraption. Very impressive.


Except for the small detail that it has never...actually worked...at least not in the way they hope.


This year, there was even a slight emphasis on FIRE rather than WORKS.

But every year the brothers try and every year they get a little better. Which means every year the wives worry a little more if this will be the year that an appendage is lost or at least very badly burned. Suffice it to say---I am full of thoughts like "Please Father---don't let anything bad happen. I know they are being ridiculous, but PLEASE."

And I secretly wonder to myself, as the mother of Future Herrick Men, how many times will they hear ME say, "Don't you ever, EVER, EVER do THAT. EVER," only for it to become a catch-phrase as they run off with their dad and uncles?

But I wouldn't trade those Herrick Men for all the Rules in the World. Especially not my favorite one.

To My Dad

That's my sweet cocoon of a husband taking a nap on a makeshift bed, complete with a nappy, spare pillow. You see, he's filthy and exhausted after working so very hard for our family. And I love him for it.


No one person could ever possibly teach another person ALL there is to know about a certain subject. Especially in the area of GIANT LIFE LESSONS. There's too much to learn and they're called life-lessons because you keep deepening your knowledge and understanding of them your whole life. That's what I think.

However, in this particular life lesson, my dad's teaching stands out. It has for a long time, and probably always will.

My dad taught me to work.

He taught me to enjoy it.
He taught me that to shirk it is cowardly.
That to perform it creates stability that allows happiness---peace even.
He taught me that to embrace it creates beauty.
That to avoid it creates problems (that some how always cost money, no matter what the nature of the problem.)
That to balance it is essential.
That to overdo it is much harder than many are willing to admit.
That there are few good excuses when it's sloppy.
That to rest from it is essential.
That it is the great leveler.
That some of the better compensations for it rarely involve money.

And because my dad was one of my most influential teachers of this subject matter, I would like to thank him.

Because I get it.

And I'm happy, in large part, because of it.

Thank you, Dad.

One of My Favorite Games

Paul: I love you.
Me: You do?
Paul: Yep
Me: Even though I am nuts?
Paul: Nuts is a relative term.

We literally have this EXACT conversation every day.
Why?
Three reasons.

1- Sometimes I still get a little fluttery on the insides at the thought that he does. (Don't be grossed out. You know we're the gushy type.)
2- Frankly, there's a lot going on these days and in the deepest recesses of my heart, and sometimes much closer to the surface, I feel a bit batty.
3- Paul learned long ago that I get the biggest kick out of repeated conversations. They're an inside joke, and I love an inside joke---makes me feel all connected and whatnot. Another one goes like this:

On the phone:
Me: How are you?
Paul: Good. (Pause) How are you?
Me: Good. (Pause) How are you?
Paul: Good. (Pause) How are you?
Me: Good. (Pause) How are you?

But the trick to this one is making each "Good. (Pause) How are you?" have a completely different but superbly realistic intonation i.e. enthusiastic, friendly, awkward, grumpy, jovial, seductive, quizzical, skeptical, etc.

Try it. I dare you. How creative can you be?

And now I wonder.
How are you?

Why I Think I'm Good At This...

Teaching of course.

Now, I worry (though only ever so slightly) how this post will come across because I fully intend to tell you why I am good at my job. But not in an arrogant way, in a "holy-cow-this-fits-me-like-a-perfect-pair-of-shoes-that-I-really-like-to-wear" way.

I will start by saying this. There is only ONE aspect of my job that I loathe.

Recess duty right before or right after school.

I JUST HATE IT.

If I could pawn it off on someone else EVERY TIME, I would.

But I digress.

Six reasons why me and teaching work.
I'm not sure if they are in a particular order.

1. I LOVE to be in charge.
It's true. Ask my immediate family (although they have some nasty word for it like "bossy" or something. I prefer the phrase "management oriented.") A classroom is a microcosm, a mini-corporation. I am responsible for a certain product and it must be produced amongst and amidst MULTIPLE and complex variables, and it's an exhilarating thrill to produce it every day.

2. I NEED to be loved.
Everyone does. Everyday, I must stand in front of multiple people (yes kids are in fact PEOPLE---though I get the impression that sometimes others view them more like pets) and I must win their affections over and over. I must earn their loyalty, their respect, their admiration, their trust. There is nothing in my position that entitles me to these sentiments. I must live and interact with these people in such a way that they willing give them to me --- against all odds sometimes. And when they do, my soul soars.

3. I NEED to LOVE people.
My favorite pastime is not reading, exercising, or even singing. It is TALKING. I will sacrifice hours and hours of precious sleep if it means I have the chance to get a glimpse of someone else's soul and then share with them part of mine. I spend a majority of each day learning about these people and what makes them tick. What frustrates them. What inspires them. And then have the opportunity to try to provide for some of their needs. And I am happier because of it.

4. My other favorite pastime is organizing stuff.
I have a collection of Barbies from my childhood. I don't remember ever making up more than handful of scenarios for them. Dramatics were to be played out by ME (see below) not some doll. The purpose for dolls as far as I was concerned, was to look pretty in their immaculately organized house. So I spent hours organizing their house OVER and OVER and OVER again. And as a teacher, there is the obvious organization of classroom supplies and furniture that must occur, but it's so much more. One must figure out how to organize time, and teams, and lessons, and units, and people in such a way that not a minute is lost. So that when a kid leaves my room everyday and then at the end of the year he RECOGNIZES "Hey, I learned a bunch of stuff. And it was cool."

5. I always have an audience.
I'm not sure of any other profession in the world where my amateur Spanish, Texan, or British accents would be so VASTLY popular. Where my somewhat classically-trained voice would be so praised (or imitated---because sometimes a teacher MUST declare it opera day where all communication must be SUNG until you're laughing so hard that breathing becomes an issue), where my storytelling would be so admired. Where a disheveled lab coat, pipe-cleaner glasses, and wacky hair would make me something of a legend.

6. It makes a difference.
In the back of my room, in giant cutout letters is the phrase, "I can do hard things." We talk about it all year long. We point it out to ourselves all year long, when we have and when we haven't. We push and we push and we push all year long, until I have taught them and they have learned how to multiply 3-digit times 2-digit numbers. This is a hard thing (for both of us) and when they can do it, our eyes are a little more bright and our backs are a little more straight and our grin is a little more wide and we soar. Together. Cuz' it was hard. And we did it. And now we have faith that we can do even more.

And so.
I teach.

A Love Letter About Ducks

Dear Paul,

Thank you for Mother's Day. Thank you for gifting it to me without qualifiers like "even-though-it's-not-official" or even, "I-just-couldn't-wait-till-next-year." Thanks for just giving it to me. For recognizing me, as a mother. Thank you.

The day was perfect---except for the parts that weren't (and for those who were patient with me through the imperfect parts, I truly love you with all my heart...especially you, Paul)--- there was church, and good food, and wonderful presents, and an afternoon under the sun reading a novel with you.

Oh yeah---and remember that duck who sat ever-so-protectively on her nest yesterday. She is a noble duck. I hope my human-motherness is as vigilant as as her ducky-motherness. I really mean that. If you were reading this over my shoulder, Paul, you would lqty (laugh quietly to yourself) and assure me that I had nothing to worry about, but you would know exactly what I mean, because truly, she IS a noble duck.

And remember how at the end of Mother's Day, Kelly took a nap under her desk for her birthday. Maybe we could suggest that next year to my boss. That is a good idea.

I love you with all of my heart. Hurry home to me. I want to finish reading the book with you, and then stay up far later than is good for us, talking about it. Besides when the the baby is "officially" here, that will be an even worse idea then, than it is now. :-)

Love,
Me (and Grace because we both love you.)

It Occured to Me...and Thank Heaven it Did

I was maybe, truthfully, the tiniest bit afraid of the fact that we were having girl.

It's true.

You see, I know MYSELF and I just couldn't fathom having to try to say the right things TO myself. You see...I can be kind of...well...a weepy person and what was I going to do if there were TWO weepy persons in the house?

So I have been a bit afraid of this little, tiny, potentially weepy girl. I'm not referring to the crying that is COMMUNICATION in a small child. I am talking about the weepy-ness that can be ME.

But that was NOTHING compared to my fear of the DRAMA that can often be OTHER girls.

So I thought about it. A lot.

In fifth grade, I was prank-called by a girl pretending to be boy in my class. Being the heart-on-sleeve person that I am, and due to the fact that puberty had not set in for any of us, it was easy for me to confess to the "boy" that I liked him. Humiliation set in the next day at school.

In the sixth grade, I got kicked out of the cool-girl-trio we had because I was the new-comer (my mother assured me that this was no problem because the other two girls had decided to call themselves "Blonde Bimbos" and this was simply not something I wanted to be associated with anyway---thank heaven for wise mothers.)

Then I was ostracized again in the eighth grade because I was nice to the "nerdy" girl.

I personally think not having sisters made me particularly sensitive to these moments because I wasn't well versed in defending myself against this brand of attack.

And as I recall, that's about the time I started keeping my distance from the females of the species.

To survive---and to thrive I might add---in highschool, I found a handful of girls with whom I could discuss openly my two favorite subjects: boys, and the religious and philosophical implications of the world as I knew it---and ignored the rest of the backstabbing lot.

However, with age, maturity, and experience, the fear of girls was, I thought, gone. Until I realized I had to raise one.

Crap.

But I started to watch the girls around me. I've always loved the girls from the generations one or two before mine. They're good listeners and have good advice. My soul thrives on the conversation of the girls my own age at work, from the mission, and old college friends. We laugh hysterically as we tell stories of just plain-old-life. I adore the little girls in my class whose hearts are so pure as they are just being introduced making tough decisions about how to treat other people. And holy cow, who doesn't laugh out loud when they hear a toddler tell her dad that her mowf is pink because she's been eating "Fez" all day (she meant Pez of course.)

And then epiphany came. Last Thursday night, in fact. It was not GIRLS I ever had a problem with...it was just the teenage version of them. And by golly, this little girl of mine ISN'T GOING TO START OUT AS A TEENAGER!!!

And so I'm not afraid of her any more.
And as for the weepy-ness, me and my mom weep together all the time, and then hang up the phone, loving each other more than we did when the conversation began. It's perfect.

I Tried This Once...

I find a good cry to be remarkably productive: a release of emotional toxin, a chance to vocalize the ugly, a shedding of a heavy load. When the cry is done, I am able move on with relative ease (assuming the headache subsides.) But if you promise to be gentle in your thoughts of me, I will tell you a funny story. A story of when I tried something new.

The first thing that you need to know is that we live in a glorified shoebox.
400 square feet.
One bedroom.
Living room with enough space for a loveseat only.
My very favorite part of the house is the northeast corner, where if you stand facing the southwest corner, you can literally see every room of my house WITHOUT so much as shifting your eyes. This is how I give the grand tour. The house has a legacy! Remember that.


Second thing you should know. Students failing tests = Me failing job. It is an exquisitely painful experience every dang time.

Story.

Late one September night, after a long taxing day, I was grading failed tests.
I should know by now that this is a recipe for disaster.

The venom of defeat surged through my veins. I decided to walk away from the table (the folding one we put up and down regularly because it doesn't actually fit in our shoebox.) I noticed the enormous collection of dishes piling up on the counter. Another failure. Among the dishes sat a gaudy, glass, butterdish with butter that --- like me--- had seen better days.

I went to my room, hands clenched in my hair, trying to let it all go. But at a time like that one MUST conquer something, right? The children could not be fixed at 10:36 pm, but the DISHES! I could handle the dishes. Paul in the mean time was trying ever so patiently to assure me that I was not a bad teacher…they were just bad students.

Unconvinced, I got up to do the dishes. I would not be beat down by everything in my path that day. And I refused to cry.

I calmly walked to the sink. I calmly washed dishes. My hands moved with remarkable control considering that every pulse of my heart felt like a wave of filth and obscenities. But I persisted. Calmly. I turned to the counter to get more dishes.
There was that gaudy dish. I washed some more. I turned to collect again, and that rancid butter in its heinous dish just sat there. All sparkly.

A dark desire filled my soul. A need to experiment. I wouldn't miss that dish. We don't even eat that much butter. Should I? No. It's irrational. Will I anyway? Maybe. I lifted the dish (calmly) and a feeling that must have been hate...not for anyone or anything, just hate.... took over.

With shriek that would shame an accomplished banshee, I hoisted that ugly dish directly overhead with both hands. And from that point in my house from which you can view the rest of the house simultaneously, I thrust that shiny body to the ground directly in front of my feet.

I should have just cried.

But I didn’t. I stood there. I observed the scene before me. Numb. I noticed Paul sitting bolt upright on the bed. (He later told me that his only thought at that moment was for self-preservation. "Where will I be most safe?”) I turned around. I walked back to the sink. I continued to do the dishes. Calmly.

I heard Paul puttering around looking for shoes. He came out of the bedroom. I glanced at him with soapy hands and with tears finally slipping down my cheeks said pitifully, "Paul, I broke the butter dish." And then the part of me that normally handles stress broke free and I began to sob. He immediately rushed to hold me. I let him, then pulled back enough to look him in the eye and said, "Paul, I feel so bad. We didn't even know you married a crazy person."

He laughed, and hugged me again.

The first thing he picked up was me. He carried me to my room and put me in my bed. Then he picked up tiny shards of glass from every
single
room
in the house.


I finished the dishes the next morning.
7:13 am.
Victory at last.

Finding the Right Words...

A little girl in my class brought a can of "whupped cream" for the banana split party they earned on Friday. I almost died laughing. I for one am sold on the product. I shan't ever use whipped cream again and why should I when I could use "whupped cream."

And for that matter I don't drink hot chocolate anymore. No. No I do not. Frankly, it's just doesn't taste as good at hot chlocket. Thank you, 5 year old, Leslie for introducing me to that sugary wonder.

And what's more, here is a REAL man in the making (Paul, you would be proud). Dressed up as Andrew Jackson, one of my students presented a flawless monologue of the man who's face adorns our $20 bills. Like a celebrity following a press conference he hosted a post-confernce Q and A.

Question: "Mr. Jackson, you said you once killed a man. Why did you do it?"

To which the child replied with sincerity and frankness, "Well, you see, back in my day, if someone insulted your wife's honor, you had the pleasure of killing him in a duel. Someone insulted my wife so I killed him."

And to think that I get my very own right-word-finder in just a few short months.

Random Firings from My Overloaded Brain...

If my brain were a gun in an open firing range, I would yell to everyone around me "Get the h--- out the way! I have lost control of this thing!" Meaning my brain of course. And if we were actually on the range, I would be tempted to say the rest of the "h" word because that's the way of the shooting range. When in Rome, you know (or on the range for that matter.)

When I wake up in the morning, I get tired just trying to keep up with myself. Shoot a little here, fire a little there, try to process the thoughts, but already, I've got buckshot spraying over elsewhere. It's dangerous I tell you.

I won't blame pregnancy. That's simply not where this is coming from.

It's certainly added ammunition to the belt to be sure. But it is not the cause of the rapid fire. PLUS. To blame this on pregnancy might insult the rest of you who know EXACTLY how I feel but happen to have never been pregnant a day in your life.

It's just how life is sometimes. So much to do and not enough time to figure it all out. At least not without shooting my eye out.

Chapter 2

The general announcement was made a few weeks ago that we had started a collection of tiny things for some company that we are expecting in August. I am reminded of late, that I also need to start a collection of BIGGER things at some point too, or I will be spending my summer days in....the nude. For the record, those days (the neked ones) aren't here yet. Not at all, in fact. But come May, the story will be very different.

All of these thoughts have been met with great anticipation and wonder. I can actually feel my muscles stretching. Well, of course I can! They are. But I certainly never thought to think of that! And so I signed up for a weekly email where they tell you the size of your little lovey as compared to some sort of fruit (we have an avocado). I read books that assure me that while I occasionally feel that the mental and emotional me must surely be unrecognizable, the good news is I am normal. And I also view my profile regularly in the mirror to take stock of the physical changes (subtle though they have been.)

All these things are done with excitement and gratitude, and yet, there are moments when I lay by my sweet husband and think of how beautiful life already is.

Just the two of us.

The time has been precious.

We are so soon to close that chapter with just him and me.

And every so often, in the stillness and quiet, I ache. I don't wish for a second that things were not as they are, but oh, how poignant in my heart is the knowledge of the gift that I have already been given. The feeling is something akin to leaving home for the first time or what I will likely feel again, when it's time to put those tiny things away, because it's the first day of kindergarten.

The sweetness of life with just me and him, is lovingly being tucked away in my heart. A memory to treasure as I prepare for my next gift. And so we go.

A Good Idea....

Getting packed for the mission was disappointing for one reason only. Not because it was a reminder that I was leaving my family (and future family) for a year and a half. Not because I had packed into other boxes, reminders of what my joyful life had been for the previos 22 years.

THIS was the reason it was disappointing:

I spent $1000 dollars on new clothes that I didn't really like. Don't get me wrong, I was never once, a day in my mission, a frumpy missionary. I made an oath that I wouldn't be and I wasn't. This oath wasn't driven by vanity. It was driven by self-respect, and respect for the message I bore.

But the point is this: I made hundred dollar purchases on skirts that I did not want to immediately model for my mother and best friends when I got home from the store. And the shoes I bought--- there was no temptation to don them before the appropriate date. I never once lovingly opened my closet to look, and touch gently the new clothes that in just a few days would turn other's heads in admiration. That was not the nature of those clothes. Those clothes were professional. They were tidy. They were modest. And they were FRIGHTFULLY practical.

So, after all that spending, I decided against spending more on things like pajamas.They weren't going to be seen by anyone but roommates anyway. So I just took 2 pairs of drawstring flannels that had been purchased by my mother at the beginning of my freshman year of college. Make do...Remember? (Note: I left on my mission the middle of my senior year of college.)

While living with 5 other sister missionaries in Connecticut, Christmas was quickly approaching. We decided to draw names and give each other a small gift. Unbeknown to myself, my flannels had apparently hit rock bottom. I was made aware of this when, for Christmas, I was given the cutest pair of apple jammie bottoms I had ever seen. Attached was a note that said simply, "Now you can get rid of those nappy things you wear to bed every night." The epiphany was immediate. She was right. Those things were disgusting and I had just been ignoring it.

To make a long story short, let's just say that this entire scenario has repeated itself again this week. With I in my nappy jammie bottoms, and Paul in his let-me-make-her-life-better-attitude. I came home last Monday, to new, wonderfully comfortable pajama bottoms.

And here, finally, is the good idea. Paul, himself, dons some pretty sick flannels. The kind you can't wear anywhere but your own bedroom because the placement of their holes would make other people blush (or tell crude jokes. We do have 7 brothers between the two of us.) And FOR-THE-FIRST-TIME-EVER, I will be the Nappy Pajama-Bottom Rescuer. I will lay those sad puppies to rest. Wish me luck--I am going shopping!

Discovery Part 1

I've come to terms with the idea that I live by the motto "Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without," without even thinking about it. Perhaps it's a survival mode left over from those college days of $3.17 in the bank account for two weeks. I'm not sure of the roots, but when others ask what do you think needs improvement, we have this money over here? or even just What do you need for such and such? I really struggle. I've spent no time figuring out what I need that could make something better. My energies have all been focused on what on earth can I do with this that I have right here?

They gave me $560 to spend in my classroom my first year. (Half year, really.) WHAT IN THE HECK DO I DO WITH THIS? I don't have a clue what I'm doing here and you expect me to tell you what supplies I need to DO it?

Finally---after much deliberation---I realized I could use an easel that actually held things up off the ground, Instead of that thing I used to lean other things against. Awkwardly. If they weren't too heavy. But in my haste to spends the funds at the end of the year, I ordered the most expensive easel that probably ever existed. I ordered an easel that probably could have doubled as a major support beam. When the monstrous box marked "EASEL" showed up in my classroom, I left it alone for weeks, afraid to confront the beast, overwhelmed by this over-sized commitment. Where was I going to put that? It became the proverbially ignored elephant in the room in an sort of literal way.

When finally, I had the emotional energy to confront the problem, I found that I had purchased with that precious money, no major support beam. Nor did I have the easel of all easels worthy of displaying the art of the Masters. No. No, I did not. But I did have SIX identical CRAPPY easels.

The point of all this being that I had spent months getting along just fine with or without that blasted easel and this, I feel, is a good thing. But I also see as a good thing, the ability to look around at a situation and say hey, if we do this, we can make this other thing over here, so much better, then find a way to make that happen. So I've been working on that and I find it's working for me.

My principal suggested incorporating a program that important training would be given monthly. The only catch was that many of the teachers would have to get a substitute on the same day once a month. The former me would have said, "Okay. I'll make that work." But the growing me thought about it, developed an opinion, shared that opinion, and found myself changing the course of the outcome. Maybe this comes naturally to many of you, but this is progress for me. I am finding a voice. Troubleshooting. Purposefully allocating resources instead of wasting them on 6 easels (which just take up space in my closet right now. 2 years later.) I see this as a process of moderation. "Moderation in all things" That's what they say. I'm getting the hang of that one too.

Second Rehersal

It's tricky for me to write this blog. I've read from bloggers that one should not blog about blogging. I even have this creepy feeling that I am supposed to be linking the word "blogging" to the person/ post where I read that. But I am going to claim the novice role and this is why: I am not entirely sure what the purpose of my blog is yet (hence the hesitancy to share with others...where there is no vision the blogs perish...I don't want others to watch a part of me perish. I don't feel that makes me unique.) Is this a journal? Is this where I develop the writer in me that at times has expressed a desire to stand and then is politely sat back down as the rest of my life demands all my time and attention? WHAT AM I TRYING TO MAKE HERE?!?!? Is it a memoir? Is it all of those things and how much of each? WHO IS MY AUDIENCE?

These questions plague me, and that is why no one knows about my internet experiment except my Mom and Paul. I have no true secrets. I mean that. There's not a thing about me that I haven't at least attempted to express to either or both of those people. Like many others, I simply don't process without speaking. (That's also very UNLIKE many others, I have come to learn. For example: Paul. Opposites do attract. How on earth would I have the time to process if Paul spent all day talking? Really. We're a perfect match.)

So for now, Paul and Mom, you are my audience. I am allowed to mess up my lines in front of you. Immediately I feel relief. These are rehearsals and Mom and Paul are watching as I develop this character that I will be for this blog...this seems so true to real life. And so we go.

On a day when profoundness evades me...

True confessions?
1. I have no plans to show this to anyone until I've decided if it will stick or not. Nothing seems to compare with the feelings of visiting an unwanted blog...especially one that had potential.
2. I made sure that profoundness was actually a word. Paul and I make up words to amuse ourselves. The more suffixes the better (so long as its actual meaning can be inferred/deduced---or deducified for those of you who were wondering what I meant) and truthfully, I sometimes forget which words are real and which are the fruits of humorous conversation.
3. I don't know if I can post pics of my students, but I really want to because they are the type of people a person really should know. You know, the kind who love you, find you hysterical, love everything you love, and think it's a treat to have lunch with you. Who wouldn't want that? Who doesn't NEED that?
4. When I titled the entry, I thought I had nothing to say. But now, I think maybe I did. And so we go...