But first: because it’s Friday and I love you, I give you the link with actual video for this week’s entry in the “Now why didn’t I think of that?” Why? I’ll tell you why. Because I’m stone cold sober and I don’t know how to hula with my clothes on, let alone stone cold nekkid. (And I’m old enough to buy my own beer.)

In other news: So apparently 1 in 4 Americans did not read a single book last year. Quel sadness!

“I just get sleepy when I read,” said Richard Bustos, a habit with which millions of Americans can doubtless identify. Bustos, a 34-year-old project manager for a telecommunications company, said he had not read any books in the last year and would rather spend time in his backyard pool.

Odds are–even if you are very busy, very tired or have your own backyard pool–you all are doing a little better than that; so here’s a little readers’ poll:

1. What is the most recent book you have read/are reading? Tell me if and why you like it.

2. What’s your favorite of anything you read over the past year. What did you like about it.

(Disclaimer: You don’t have to provide your religous, politicalor gender affiliations. No need to go there. Let’s just dish about books.)

I’ll start:

I just finished Jasper Fforde’s First Among Sequels. I loved the brilliant wit, both terrible and terribly funny puns, biting satire and absolutely “out there” imagination. Ironically, falling readership of books is addressed somewhat in this the latest volume of the highly entertaining Thursday Next novels.

As for the past year, I will admit my reading has been sporadic. I’m a total flake at book club. Would you be totally disenchanted with me if I told you one of my favorites was this (which I loved simply because it left me satisfied)? I mean I did read all 400 pages of Pride and Prejudice. But I’d be lying if I said it was my favorite.

The previous guest post Nursing toddlers is the new black, by the lovely azúcar, was so much fun I decided to host one again. In the comments on extended nursing, one mom brought up another controversial parenting topic: co-sleeping. Soybeanlover, who found the post via Queen Scarlett, was gracious enough to guest post about this hot topic.

As I read her post it occurred to me soybeanlover has the added perspective of parenting in another country and culture, so I asked her to preface her post with a short bio:

I am a SAHM and English Teacher. I came to Japan three years ago to teach English after I came home from my mission, to Salt Lake City of all places, and ended up meeting my husband the first week I was here, we dated for a short time, got married, and now I’m here for the long haul. I love it here, but miss my family back in the States. I’m slowly turning into a tree hugging hippy, I love the recycling program here, almost always cook from scratch, use cloth diapers, and generally want to hug the planet.

The taboo art of co-sleeping

Ok, so here is how you do it, you get one BIG bed, two adults and a baby, shake it up and viola! co-sleeping. Not really, but here is an account of my adventure with it. First and foremost though, always practice safe co-sleeping. Here is a list of some safe sleep sharing tips.

Now onto the juicy stuff. I started thinking about co-sleeping while reading a friend’s blog and contemplating how in the world I was going to fit a crib into our houses. Our house isn’t tiny, but since both 007 and I had been single for a long time, we’d accumulated way too much stuff. We did end up buying a crib and hardly using it. As we got closer to B-day I was leaning further and further towards co- sleeping, especially after being indoctrinated by Dr. Sears and The Baby Book. Slings, co-sleeping, no cry-it-out, and all that stuff seemed to go along more with the way we wanted to raise a child. In the end it really wasn’t my decision, it ended up just happening.

It turns out I live in the land of the family bed. Japanese families sleep together for a long time, sometimes until high school and beyond. My husband had no issue giving up his room and staying with his mom, so I could have a place to sleep when I would visit while we were dating. The hospitals even encourage it here! The nurses were more than willing to set up a gaurd rail and roll some towels so that Edamame and I could co-sleep in the hospital. Of the three other women in the room with me, only one did not co-sleep. It was a very natural thing to do when we got out of the hospital.

007 was at first not so keen on the idea. He’d lived in the States long enough to think that a crib was the norm, and like any normal man, thought about the potential impact on “relations”. He was a quick convert though. He’d be at work all day, and Edamame would be sleeping when he got home, and he wouldn’t get to hold him much. I had the baby on my side, just like any safe co-sleeper should, but then one day he said ‘I miss Edamame, could we put him in the middle’. I obliged, and it was one of the best things I could have done! After nursing I’d hand the baby off to 007 and he’d hold the
baby in the crook of his arm and they’d both be asleep by the time I was back from my midnight potty break. It meant a lot less work for me!

Some other pluses I noticed, I would wake up while Edamame was still wiggling before he’d wake up, and I’d feed him before he had a chance to cry. When I was really exhausted I’d just nurse on my side and we’d both fall asleep (and then both wake up 2-3 hrs later in a small puddle of leaked breast milk, oh fun!). That had to stop eventually though, since as he got older, if we fell asleep like that, he’d wake up more frequently. He now wakes up once at about 3-4am after sleeping for 8hrs, nurses for about 10 min, I put him down and we both fall back asleep quickly. I like it because I don’t have to get out of bed, and so I can stay really groggy and fall asleep quickly. 007 likes it because he gets to spend time with Edamame, who has now started to roll over and snuggle next to daddy, and Edamame likes it because there are fun people to play with first thing in the morning (or just crawl all over until the fun people wake up). He does and can sleep on his own, during nap time and from when he goes to bed until we hit the hay a few hours later.

I know some studies have come out saying co-sleeping increases the rate of SIDS, but there are studies that also say the opposite. I for one think it helps the baby regulate their breathing and body functions, but hey, I’m not a scientist, do some research if you are worried about it, hopefully it will assuage any fears you have.

This is getting to be long, but I want to address one more issue first. This is the question that most people WANT to ask but are way too shy to. How do you have “relations” when you co-sleep? Think back, before the diapers, before the spit up, to a time free of children, back a bit more, to when you were a newlywed. Ok, now, as a newlywed, were you tied to only using a bed? Just try to imagine yourself back in honeymoon mode. Give a little creativity a try, or a lot if you have much older children, put the younger ones to bed a bit earlier, and I’ll let you fill in the rest.

All in all, I enjoy it, it is easy, and my child is happy. I know I’m very fortunate to be in a culture where it is accepted. We went back to the US for Christmas last year and I got more comments on ‘so when are you going to move him to a crib’ in the three weeks that we were there, than the last year here. A baby doesn’t need a crib to learn how to stand, a crib is just a cultural thing that has been ingrained into us over the years. A lot of people ‘secretly’ co-sleep with their kids, it’s ok! don’t be afraid. It isn’t a bad habit, you’re baby will learn how to sleep on their own when you are both ready. There will come a point where it isn’t cool anymore to be with mom and dad, until then enjoy the extra time together.

Thanks again soybeanlover. As always, I’m open to hosting guest bloggers any time. Have something on your mind? E-mail me at henfeatherzATgmailDOTcom.

If you’d been a fly on the wall (well, technically somewhere over the VoIP) this is what you would’ve overheard the other day while I was at work:

Ring.

Me: Hello. Burgundy London; this is Dalene, may I help you?

Caller X: Hello, I’m calling from Lackawanna. I just want to let you know blah blah blah blah blah.

Me (thinking I’m ending the call): Sure. I’ll be happy to take care of that for you. Thank you for calling.

Caller X: Dalene. That’s an unusual name.

Me (still thinking I’m ending the call): Yes it is. My parents made it up. Thanks for…(read: end of story.)

Caller X: Irish. “Lene” is Irish. You’re not Irish are you?

Me (still trying to end the call and figuring there is no point in explaining it’s not Irish; it’s Intermountain West. All the other offices of my company already think we’re weird here because we are sober.): Nope. I was firstborn; my dad’s name was Dale. Dalene is simply Dale with an “n-e” tacked on. Dalene. (He did not get the long explanation, which has something to do with my not being a firstborn son, but Dad making the best of it anyway.)

Caller X: That’s a good name. You should be a rock star. Like Madonna.

Me (seeing the similarities-ha!): Oh yeah. I should be just like Madonna. Me and Madonna.

Caller X: Or Joan Jett. You know, if you really love rock and roll.

Me (amused now because previously his entire point was about being a one-name band. Joan Jett. Two words.?): Yeah, I like Joan Jett.

Caller X: Get it? You know the song, “I Love Rock and Roll.”

Me (with eyes rolling and hands up in the air for the benefit of my co-workers who have by now realized this is not your every day call to QA): Yeah. I get it. I Love Rock and Roll. I know the song. (I probably still remember all the words.)

Caller X: Joan Jett is with Carmen Electra, you know.

Me (not even feigning my disbelief): Really? I did not know that. Aren’t they like from two different generations? (read: I grew up with Joan, Carmen used to be a new kid on the block. She used to have a thing for Candies shoes, but that was ages ago. Is Carmen even gay? Who knew?)

Caller X: Yeah. They’re together. But they’re not from different generations.

Me: Yeah, well, I guess I’ll have to Google that. I really had no idea. (read: how such pertinent information could have escaped my notice? I mean I work in the business of news, you know.)

Caller X (convincingly–as if he has personal knowledge of the fact): Yeah, it’s true.

Me (determined now more than ever to end the call): Yeah, well, um, thanks! You have a nice day now. Bye.

(My apologies. I realize this makes two memes in a row and indicates a complete lack of original thought. But I couldn’t resist the complete randomness of this one, so I gave it a go:)

My roommate and I once…used to frequent Punk Night at The Palace. (Hey, I could Rebel Yell with the best of them.)

Never in my life have I…been to the opera, a Justin Timberlake concert or a clam bake. I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything, do you?

High school was…so long ago! But so much fun. I had friends in every crowd, which made it easy to have a good time. I also have lots of stories. I probably shouldn’t mention any names when I mention one of our teachers who tried to hit on a couple of us (not at the same time). Ewww!

When I’m nervous…I feel like I’m going to throw up. I also forget people’s names just a tad more than I usually do when I’m not nervous. I’m may even blush.

My hair…is getting darker every year. People used to tell my sister and me apart by whose hair was the darkest–hers. For some unexplicable reason after I had a serious bout with double pneumonia my hair became significantly darker. I didn’t even realize it until I was explaining that trick to a niece at a family reunion. I said “My hair is lighter than J~’s.” My siblings said in unision, “Not anymore!” I had no idea. Later I was talking to my friend who was also my stylist and she had noticed the same thing. It was so drastic she thought I’d been “stepping out” on her. Wierd, huh?

When I was 5… I remember going to a Presbyterian kindergarten. Or some other demonination with which I was unfamiliar. I loved school, but I never did understand why they didn’t have kindergarten at the public elementary.

When I turn my head left… I can see right out the big picture window that looks out on our street. I notice the spot where we had a rogue squash plant growing out of the sidewalk until some mean neighbor kids deliberately ganged up and ran it down with bikes and mo-peds while we were out of town a couple of weeks ago. (But I’m not bitter.)

I should be…doing the dishes. I already scrubbed the toilets and my shower and bathroom sink. But I took a break and found this meme over at e-dub’s (can’t you just see her fleeing from campus security on the back of her roommate’s Vespa?) and couldn’t stop myself.

By this time next year… I will be trying to keep even more busy than I already am so as not to have my mother’s heartstrings pulled so hard by the empty chair at the dining room table. (I might also secretly be enjoying the fact that the auto insurance and grocery bill will have shrunk considerably.)

You know I like you if…you breathe. It’s a fault. With the exception of about two people I have ever met, I like just about everyone. Now loving is a different story. I’m a little bit more discriminating with my love. I do love all my family and most all my co-workers and of course all my blogger friends.

My ideal breakfast is…sliced boiled eggs and gravy over toast. My mom used to make it for me on my birthday sometimes. I make it for my two youngest who also love it. (The two oldest prefer crêpes, but that’s so much more work.)

If you visit my home town… please take me with you. I haven’t been there in ages. But do let’s go in time for this.

My favorite blonde is… my babies. Who were all blond until about ten or so. Which means I’ve only got about 1 1/2 left. (But I do like a good blonde brownie.)

My favorite brunette is…? I don’t like to play favorites.

The animal I would like to see flying besides birds…pigs. Because I understand once that happens there will be a lot of other impossible things happening too. I wouldn’t want to miss that!

I shouldn’t have been…so uptight at certain periods in my life when I was prone to be uptight.

Last night I… had a great time. We went to the ladybug picnic a lovely outdoor social at which we dined on freshly picked corn on the cob and tomatoes, delicious barbequed chicken, and heavenly homemade ice cream. Later I sat on the top of the bleachers next to the PHS drumline and watched them beat their hearts out on those big huge drums as the football team squeaked by Lehi (Here’s a bit of trivia: I helped this sports reporter get hired when he was just getting started and I was working at a certain now-defunct local paper. And the injured QB lives right around the corner from us). It was loud. But the grins on their faces rivaled that of the Kool-Aid Man and being there made me want to be a kid again (Not really, it just made me want to beat really loud on the big bass drum).

I’ve been told I look like…I need a good vacation.

If I could have any car, it would be… a brand new Toyota Sienna. Call me crazy, but I love my ’04 and I would drive a Sienna even if I didn’t have to drive a minivan. Great gas mileage for something so roomy and it drives like a car, not a truck. Ask me how much I love having sliding doors on both sides. And oh the cargo room! As well as the simple fact there are enough drink holders for the entire population of Rhode Island! I love it!

As usual, if you’ve got game, consider yourself tagged. (If you play let me know and I’ll tag on a link to your post at the end of this one.)

Recently I was tagged by the lovely café johnsonia to participate in a marriage meme. As you know, I can’t resist a good meme, so here it goes:

Where did you meet your husband?

BYU 122nd ward, comprised of one-half of Centennial Apartments. And, you guessed it, twice we served together as counterparts in various church auxiliaries. But we didn’t really want to have anything to do with one another. Does it get any more cliché than that?

What was the first thing you said to your husband?

I truly have no idea. But according to him it was the third week in April, 1983. I was sitting on the floor in a lower floor apartment on the outside of the complex, at the home of Jay Jorgensen, whose little sister Janelle was my roommate. Shane came over to tell Jay’s apartment about an upcoming softball game. We all exchanged casual “Hi’s” and that was it. He doesn’t believe me, but as he was recounting the details it did all come back to me.

What I remember best was that 4th of July. We had volunteered to save a few blankets for the fireworks display (it was so cool–they used to sync the fireworks with music on a local radio station) at Kiwanis Park. We had a couple of hours to kill, so we talked about where we were from and got to know each other a bit. I mentioned how much I missed our 1/2-acre family garden and my particular love of fresh beets.

A short time later Shane showed up at my door with a bag full of fresh beets. Maybe I’m too easy, but he pretty much guaranteed himself at least a first date with that thoughtful act.

Where was the first kiss? First date?

(Interesting they are in that order, no?) We were friends for such a long time before we ever thought about dating…

What happened was this: As is common around BYU during the holidays, the place was deserted. Only Shane worked retail and my family had moved to Utah by then, so we were still around. He and his roommate and I and one other girl ended up going to a dance together on New Year’s Eve. We traded dances back and forth all night till the end of the evening, when I found myself dancing more and more with Shane.

Only that wasn’t really a date. That was just when we started to become interested. We eventually had the discussion over whether or not we wanted to complicate a great friendship by dating one another. The answer was unanimous.

Later I found myself working the afternoon shift at the BYU Bookstore when I received the first of many “Roses are red, violets are blue…” poems. This one read “Roses are red, violets are blue, I would die for a date with you.”

We went to a BYU basketball game. But I was cool with that. Just don’t ask me if we won or lost. I’ll bet Shane could tell you thought. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s the one with the mind for details.

The first kiss was in my apartment, which, miraculously was free of the usual scattering of roommates.

Did you have a long or short courtship/engagement?

Here is where the cliché ends. We dated for three years–breaking up a few times in between–until, at the ancient age of 23, I went on a mission. He wrote faithfully the entire 18 months and upon my return we didn’t really want to have anything to do with one another.

That lasted for about 48 hours, but during that 48 hours we both ended up at our respective family reunions only to practially be thrown out for coming alone. I had been gone 18 months and returned to hear only, “Where’s Shane?” “Where’s Shane?” He went to his only to have the family pound their fists on the table and chant, “We want Dalene! We want Dalene!”

Needless to say we saw the writing on the wall and got together shortly after.

Where did you get engaged?

Stewart Falls. He was up at the top and I was at the bottom, when he sent me to get something. In it was a green ring box with another of his famous “Roses are Red” poems, this one asking me to marry him. He made me shout “Yes!” at the top of my lungs. I guess he wanted to make sure I was sure.

Where did you get married?

In the Manti LDS temple, the tower room. We went the entire way up the spiral staircase with the bishop from our ward behind me whispering in my ear, “It’s not too late to back out. It’s not too late to back out.” Almost 20 years later, you can see I didn’t intend to back out.

How did the reception go?

It was nice. I am not really into that kind of thing, so aside from insisting we not have a huge line (I had my brother stand in for my dad and and had my only sister and his baby sister as bridesmaids) and just a simple white cake it really didn’t matter to me. It was just before Christmas, so our colors were black and white with a touch of red. At that point in history black and white we not at all considered traditional wedding colors, so our families were a bit nervous. But it looked great. Our gifts were placed underneath a flocked Christmas tree with dotted with black and red decorations.

One funny thing happened, however. In a move that to this day I saw as wise beyond our years, we planned the reception for the week after the wedding. One sweet gentleman came twice. The evening of our wedding (when he found a gym full of sweaty boys playing basketball) and then again the next week.

How was the honeymoon?

Short, sweet and simple. I still had finals starting early the next week, so we just went up to Salt Lake City for a couple of days. (I did pack along my books just in case I needed to study. But of course I never opened my backpack.)

I still managed to pull straight A’s that semester.

But I do have to add this: When I realized how close it was to our upcoming 20th anniversary, I decided to consider our trip to Finland last fall a perfect second honeymoon. It was worth waiting for.

(You all know I’m not so great on the tagging part. But if you’re interested, consider yourself tagged. Do tell!)

Players:
sarah k.

I’m happy to up my street cred today with a guest post from the lovely and talented Azúcar, of The Jet Set. Thank you Azúcar.

Nursing toddlers is the new black

Now that Gwen Stefani is still nursing her toddler, I wonder if extended nursing will be the newest, coolest thing. I want it on record: I did it before Gwen made it cool. I nursed my first baby until he was 2.5 year old. I intend on nursing all my babies that long. I’m not about to write a long treatise on how nursing into childhood is or isn’t for everyone, but it was for us.

I bet some of you are curious how it all worked, so I’m spilling the beans, pull up a bowl.

When I was pregnant with El Guille, I had a conversation with my mom and baby sister. Baby sister and I both voiced our opinions that when a baby can walk and talk, they can be done with nursing. These opinions were based on…who knows what they were based on?! We were just parroting what we’d heard here and there. My mom looked a little funny. “Well,” she said, “I nursed each of you past a year. And you, baby sister, the longest of all. You were three.” That planted a seed. If I’d weaned El Guille when he could walk, he would have been 9 months.

We had a hard time nursing at first. I got some poor medical advice that cut my supply and it was a devil of a time trying to bring it back. We had a nursing strike at 7 months that was so emotional. That’s why when I got to 12 months I took a look around; El Guille didn’t want to stop, and neither did I.

What were our options? I’m a big one for researching my decisions and not taking anything at face value. I thought about nursing logically: how was it that breast milk is the most perfect food for the first 365 days of your baby’s life and then on day 366, it goes rotten and sour? Call me out, but I couldn’t think of a single other bodily function or procedure that was so tied to the Gregorian calendar. You can read about the benefits here if you desire the details.

If you know me, you’d probably guess that when we decided to nurse past a year, it was worthy of an announcement. You’re lucky you didn’t see an ad in the paper. “Azucar and her family would like the pleasure of informing you that they do the unthinkable in our America: they plan on nursing until their babies are at least two years old. In lieu of gifts, please buy a Boppy and burn a bra.”

When I told my mom and dad that I was planning on going until El Guille was at least two they were pleased. I kind of joked with my dad that at least Guille would stop by the time he went to school. “Why? The longer, the better.” said my dad, quite seriously. School age is a little over the line, for me anyway. My in-laws weren’t as openly supportive. My mother-in-law thought it was a little strange, but she’s a really good person who believes that I’m the mother and I make the best decisions for my babies. I love her for that.

Some people think that when you’re nursing a toddler it’s like nursing a newborn: every two hours and time intensive. It’s not at all. For us, we nursed twice a day, occasionally three times, from age 16 months to 22 months. At 22 months, he refused to sit still and wanted to play first thing, not nurse. Hey! Fine by me! We kept our bedtime nursing for the next seven months. He gradually slowed down, dropping a session here and there: he went to every other day, to twice a week, then once, and then it was over. El Guille weaned himself: no tears, no drama, and no big deal. So much for the “If you don’t wean before a year they’ll NEVER stop” crowd. He stopped when he was ready, and that’s what I wanted for him.

I loved nursing a toddler because they will actually slow down and enjoy snuggle time with you. It was great to know that I didn’t have to worry about his nutrition gap, no ensure or toddler formula. I didn’t have to stress that he didn’t like cow milk. When El Guille was 16 months and got sick from a plane ride we took, the only thing he would keep down was my milk. My pediatrician told me that he was such a severe case that had I not been nursing him, he probably would have been hospitalized for dehydration. It was a great way to sooth bumps and bruises, to stop a tantrum in its tracks. El Guille had manners. He didn’t pull on my shirt and demand to nurse in public. He didn’t run in and out of the room nursing for two seconds, or try to nurse in some gymnastics position. He understood, because I taught him, that we only nursed at home. But that got me thinking…

Women who nurse their babies into toddler or childhood have been in a back bedroom for too long. More women than you know nurse past a year. I found out that two of my downstairs neighbors had each nursed their babies for over two years. Another neighbor came for a visit and mentioned something about her one year old nursing. I asked how long she usually nursed. She got embarrassed and said, “Well…uhm…a long time.” “Me too!” I squealed, “How long is a long time?” She said that her first was 2 years and her second, 3. I was at church on Sunday and went into the women’s lounge to nurse Proximo. I found a mom there with her 2 year old. The mom was a little nervous. I told her how awesome it was that she was still nursing, and she relaxed.

Why is this not even an issue in the rest of the world? Why is it ok to feed your human child milk from a cow, but not human milk from their own mother? That reasoning doesn’t pass muster with me.

Here’s the deal: until moms start coming out of that back bedroom and telling other people, extended nursing is going to seem strange. There’s nothing wrong with nursing into childhood, it’s how humans were biologically designed. I know it’s not for everyone, but it is natural. I want other women to understand that it’s ok to listen to your heart and make decisions that might seem unusual to other Americans. Most of all, there’s nothing like nursing a little child. They are so grateful, so happy to be there. They want to spend that close time with you, gazing into your eyes, playing little finger games, just being near you.

I wonder if El Guille remembers nursing. It’s been one year and four months since we stopped, written in my heart like all mother’s milestones. Just last week, he called me into his room. He asked if we could sit in the rocking chair together. That rocking chair is where we used to nurse near the end. He crawled up onto my lap, folding up his arms and legs—limbs that are now elongating and becoming thinner, like a real boy. He placed his head on that space under my neck. “Can I have some milk from here?” He patted my chest. “No,” I said, “You’re a big boy now.”

(If you’re looking for me, I am jumping into the fray over at Mormon Mommy Wars today, where I play Sir Links-a-lot and attempt to debunk a myth that women of a certain age don’t blog.)

OK, I know that was so last year. But it is my favorite title for a back-to-school post.

Yes, they’re off, but I didn’t even get pictures as son #2 left because it was at 6:15 this morning and it was still dark. This year I have children at three different schools (add husband at school number four and we’re throwing a lot of love (read $$$) around the Provo School District. Toss in early morning seminary (Hence the 6:15 a.m. departure. Think about it–decent people aren’t even out of bed at that hour), and my morning routine spans almost three hours:

5:45 a.m. — make sure son #2 is up
6:15 a.m. — send him out the door
6:15:01 a.m. — make sure son #1 is up
6:30 a.m. — make sure only daughter is up

I interrupt this post to admit I’ve been a bad mommy today. I forgot my annual ritual of writing a special note to each child wishing him or her well on a new school year and tucking it away in his or her backpacks. Between missing that and the annual photo op I am designated “loser mom of the day” and I hereby declare tomorrow as the “official” first day of school. Oh well. At least I remembered lunch money this year!

7:15 a.m. — send off son #1 (and the second heavily insured vehicle)

at whatever point there is again enough hot water for at least a tepid shower — I get to start getting me ready.

7:45 a.m. — send off darling daughter to her first of two years at the local jr. high.

Whenever he wants — make sure son #3 is up. Today he made it up before 7 a.m. I will guarantee you there will be days to come in which I will be dragging him out of bed just before 8 and he will go to school half asleep.

8: 20 a.m. — send off littlest son to elementary school.

8:20 and 2.7 seconds a.m. — close the front door and–depending on how the morning has gone–either let out a primal scream or slide down the back of the door and collapse limply into an exhausted puddle.

And then I get to go to work!

Sometimes there is more to the story than just another opening season football score. Sometimes mere high school kids can make a difference in the world.

Duchesne’s team captains presented Emery High’s administration with a $1,600 check that will be given to the families of the miners.

If you’re interested, here’s what you can do to help.

Two words:

Sell out.

Sincerely,

Dedicated to a dear friend who shall remain anonymous. You know who you are. And I know somewhat of what you feel.

Disclaimer: I may be about to contradict myself. I think. If you’re conflicted, that’s OK. So am I. Maybe we are supposed to be. I don’t know. But for what it’s worth…

“To do” versus “to be”

Part I:

Somewhere along the mid-point of my early childhood mothering career I realized it was time for me to get a hobby. Learn something new. Do something I wanted to do just for the sake of enjoying the ride. So I took up quilting. No big deal–I’m not the best quilter on the block. But I don’t stink at it either. As with many of the things I do, I’m not great; I’m merely competent. And that is only because I just jump in and do it. Yet we live in a world that not only challenges us to excel, but also celebrates the excellent. It seems the only way to make merely competent enough is just to do it for the sake of doing it. Quilting for quilting’s sake. On most days it works for me.

As I kept quilting I came to realize was that the art form is more than the sum of its parts. It is a means for me to express myself. An outlet for the creative juices I have flowing through me that need an out. I often regret not being more right-brained. I admire artists, musicians and creative types who pull something out of almost nothing and make the world a more beautiful place. But truth is there is a little right-brain in all of us. We just need to let it out to play once in awhile. And sure it’s great to have something pretty to hang on the wall or toss across the back of the rocking chair, but for me it is the process–the act of being a quilter–that exceeds the value of having completed the quilt.

My point here is although quilting became something I do, it’s really about someone I am.

Part II.

A few years back I hurt my knee while participating in a dutch oven cook-off. I was diagnosed with a torn ligament on a Tuesday and scheduled surgery for that Friday. I went into surgery at a super busy time–early August. It was right before school started and a day before my husband was responsible for the cooking for and conducting of his 20th class reunion. I expected to walk out of the surgical center, take it easy for the rest of the day, then go out of town the next day to assist.

Instead I woke up and embarked on what, to this point, has been one of the most difficult periods of my life. The first words I heard we “We’re really sorry, but it was your ACL.” I had no idea what that meant, but I soon learned. One of the first things I realized was that because my doctor did a patellar tendon repair instead of a cadaver (ewww!) or a hamstring repair, I had lost the use of my entire quad muscle. I couldn’t walk. I started physical therapy the very next day without any idea how long the road to recovery could be for this type of injury.

Cut to the chase: Suddenly I found I couldn’t do any of the things I was used to doing. In particular, I was used to taking care of people and now I couldn’t even take care of myself. I couldn’t really do much of anything. I became lonely and depressed and almost completely withdrawn; it was a bleak time of my life.

My point? We cannot be only about whatever it is we do. We have to find out out who we are. Somehow we have to get to the point where who we are is good enough regardless of what we do because sometimes, for whatever reason, what we do may get taken away from us for awhile. Unless we want to be devastated and completely lost without it (like I was) we need to find who we are and know how to at any given moment let that be enough. It seems to be enough for the people who know us and love us, but we need to find a way for it to be enough for ourselves.

How you may ask? I honestly don’t know. I just know if I compare myself against all these people who are really good at things I can’t do at all or am merely OK at, I fail to appreciate the blessing of just whoever it is I am. Maybe I need to take some time to discover inherent and intangible qualities that are separate from what the world keeps telling me is so important. Maybe I need to stop wanting so badly to be really good at something. Maybe I need to stop beating myself up because someone else is always prettier, smarter, skinnier, nicer, cooler, more organized, better dressed or more successful than I am. Maybe I need to become OK with just being me. It’s not about settling or not improving myself. It’s about being satisfied and content.

I don’t really know what the answers are. I just want to make sure I’m looking at the right questions. That’s as good a place to start as any.

Thoughts please?