The Limelight

The flash of a camera speaks directly to my daughter's heart. No matter where she is when a camera is turned on, she instinctively knows where to turn, and wastes no time in honing in on her personal share of the limelight.


She knows that her fans are waiting to see her. She's sure that she's the star of any show.



What's this? Does this rather plain older brother think that his face is the one destined to be recorded for posterity? Could it be that the dog is the subject of the photo? Could the fates be that cruel?



Why are pictures being taken when the little starlet's face is not in them? What recourse does the disgruntled diva have left?


Her displeasure is duly noted.

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Her Masterpiece

The baby took a stack of computer paper and a bin filled with colored pencils and got to work writing her own masterpiece. I watched quietly for a few minutes and then drifted away to accomplish something...anything, while she was so peacefully occupied.

A few hours later I noticed her extensive treatise lying completed on the floor. Flipping through the pages, I found her visionary masterpiece laid out in perfect detail.

Page 1 describes the futility of man's search for monetary gain.


Page 2 devotes itself to the importance of leisure and rest in a well-balanced life.


Page 3 is a reawakening of individual purpose and destiny in a chaotic world.



Are we seeing a pattern?

Page 15 remarks on the necessity of strengthening the foundational relationships that guide our decisions and actions.


Page 27 wanders a little. But it ultimately arrives at the conclusion that the current state of our economic situation is a testament to our over-reaching desires and willingness to sacrifice ultimate goals for fleeting satisfactions.


Page 46 wraps up with an expression of hope for the future of our world by returning to a sense of minimalism.

Those wishing to interview the author may contact her through her agent/mother but must be willing to work around nap time.



And as a bonus, she's released this sneak peak at the updated and revised edition, due out early next year.

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To the Rescue

There are a million things I should be doing right now. I've got sunglasses and shorts to buy for Jare's field day tomorrow. He's competing in the the broad/long jump and the hula hoop contest. I bought shorts. I thought they were a size 14. They are a size 18, not great for a boy who'll be jumping tomorrow and has sincere hopes of NOT jumping right out of his pants in front of a stadium crowd. Nod's shoes have developed a crater the size of Lake Michigan in the sole. He wore his church shoes to school today, along with a major frown at his mother's inability to force Target to open before school started. Tomorrow he may wear the same shoes and a frown at his mother's inability to make it to Target before they close. It's Teacher Appreciation Week, and as the De Facto President of the PTA, I have a bajillion things to do so that our teachers feel mildly appreciated. The remains of homemade pizza linger on all the surfaces in my kitchen, and the Mount Everest of dirty clothes has dwindled, but only to a Mount Kilimanjaro status.

But I have a story to tell about motherhood, so those things will just have to wait.

I was fifteen, and so utterly alone. My best friend for the last several years had abandoned me and the rest of my high school marching band for a much cooler crowd. I would have followed if I had possessed a lot more courage and been less driven about my goals for the future. But instead, I remained behind, friendless, in a sea of polyester band uniforms.

I could muddle through most days. After all, there wasn't much time for socializing during rehearsals. Our director was determined to turn us into a well-oiled machine in time for each Friday night performance...and looming in the back of every band member's mind was the upcoming contest season with it's Saturday trips.

Band bus trips are the sauerkraut on the sandwich of a lonely band member's life. (Or some other sentence that means that band bus trips really stink when you don't have any friends.)

So the first Saturday bus trip of the season found me sitting on a curb in the parking lot of my high school with my band uniform garment bag, hat box, clarinet, and a backpack full of items that I hoped would get me through a desperately long day.

My dad had dropped me off early on his way to a job, so I had the further honor of arriving before the directors, the bus drivers, and even the drum line.

Yay, me.

I wallowed in my self-pity as I watched more and more excited band members show up. People began choosing seat partners and dividing into bus groups. I was terrified that there wouldn't be enough seats and I'd end up sitting next to someone who was forced to sit next to me.

I was in luck, though. My bus seemed to hold mostly sophomores like myself, and there were plenty of seats. I staked my claim midway back and began to arrange my belongings, waiting as the directors checked the last details of our trip. As the excited chatter around me began to rise to a fevered pitch, the loneliness weighed down on me even more. What was I doing here? What was wrong with me? I should be home in bed. I should be on the phone with my friend planning out a Saturday full of fun. I'd never make friends. I'd never fit in.

Tears were overwhelming my eyes. I had to get off that bus.

Leaving my stuff, I jumped down the steps and walked out into the parking lot. I wanted to walk home. I wanted to walk anywhere, but at that moment, I saw my mother's car turning off the highway to drive the street in front of the school.

My mom worked nights as a nurse, and at 7:30 in the morning she was coming off a long night filled with sick patients, snappy doctors, and worried families. I saw her car driving towards home and my heart ached even more. I knew my mom would understand. I knew she would know what to say. I knew without a doubt that her wisdom could help. But I just waved goodbye as she approached.

Then at the last second, she turned into the parking lot. I was confused. Had she thought I was signaling her? I walked towards the parking space where she was now parked. She rolled down her window.

"I didn't think I'd catch you in time," she said breathlessly.

"Did I forget something?" I wondered if I'd remembered my ruffle bib and cummerbund, integral parts of my super-snazzy uniform.

"No, I just thought you might need something for the bus trip. I got enough for you to share with the other kids."

She opened up a brown paper grocery bag. I looked inside to see piles of every kind of candy I could think of. I could barely lift the bag as she handed it to me. Then she pressed two five dollar bills into my hand.

"I know it's not much, but it should by a small souvenir."

Then she looked at me seriously and said, "There are adventures waiting to happen for you. Grab the ones that are good and let go of the ones that are bad. You'll remember these days as some of the best you ever had."

Then, it was time to go. I walked back to the bus thinking about what she'd said, and wondering how she'd know that I needed her in that moment. There were tears again, but of a different type.

As I climbed the steps to the bus, everyone wanted to know what I'd forgotten. I sheepishly showed them the bag of candy, and made instant friendships of the enduring kind that only chocolate can create. I had conversation for the entire trip, and that bus trip became a turning point in my ability to make and keep friends.

My mom had rescued me.

I'm a mom today, and I'm called in for search and rescue despite the fact that I rarely feel competent in my ability to help. There are so many times when I'm at the end of my day, on my knees, praying for the ability to have more, do more, be more. There are many rescue attempts that just plain fail.

But then I think about my mom. I know there were a million times when she wasn't able to make it all better...at least not right away. But those memories are foggy and distant to me. The moment that I remember...the memory that floods my mind when I hear the word "mother" is the one of my mom dressed in her nursing scrubs, driving her maroon Chevy Impala. pulling in to a parking space at my high school, and saving the day at the moment when I needed her the most.

I can't guarantee that I'll be able to soothe all the hurts of my kids. In fact, I can guarantee that I won't be able to fix everything. Honestly, that's probably a good thing. I hope they find treasured memories like I have...simple ones where I was able to help them. I think they will.

And my mother's words then, still ring so true.

I think of them when I feel the need to be rescued again, as a grown-up, and a little farther from Mommy's comforting reach.

"There are adventures waiting to happen for you. Grab the ones that are good and let go of the ones that are bad. You'll remember these days as some of the best you ever had."

Yes, mommy.

I've learned just how true that is.

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A Feather In My Cap

In Kindergarten, we six-year-olds learned quickly that the crowing symbol of educational achievement came in the form of brightly colored feathers. There were five main achievements that our ancient Kindergarten teacher wanted us to have accomplished at the end of our time together. Each time we met a requirement, we received a feather.

1. Tying our shoelaces.
2. Writing our name.
3. Coloring a picture in the lines.
4. Cutting shapes out of paper on the lines.
5. Citizenship.

It was a rigorous curriculum.

We worked all year on these tasks, throwing a little bit of folk dancing and pretend play at the wooden kitchen center into the mix to create a well-balanced education.

I excelled in the pretend kitchen area of the classroom, but that was the extent of my Kindergarten skills.

One by one the other students earned feathers for completing the requirements to prove that they were all accomplished Kindergartners. One by one, I butchered shape worksheets, tangled shoelaces until they had to be cut to be removed, and made a general mess of any standardized assignment.

I missed free time for several weeks to sit at a table with the teacher and practice writing my name. But every time, the S and the H would be backwards, with the As completely illegible.

My Rs were perfect, though. I rarely got credit for such well-crafted Rs. Those wounds are slow to heal.

In desperation, my teacher finally gave me a feather for managing to color a circle without going too far outside the lines. I also earned a citizenship feather after I cooked a seven-course pretend meal for my entire class.

On graduation day, we made circular bands out of paper, shaped to fit our heads perfectly. One by one, the teacher stapled the feathers that each child had earned onto their band.

Every other student had 5.

I had 2.

I started to cry and I couldn't stop.

As my teacher searched frantically for the package of feathers, I cried harder.

Even at such a young age, I didn't really want "gimme" feathers. I wished I could have earned my own.

And then something strange happened.

One of my friends pulled off his brightest, yellowest, sunniest feather and stuck it in my hat. Another little girl gave up her prized pink feather and placed it gently near the front of my band. Soon many other students were plucking their stapled on feathers off of their own hats and putting them in my hat.

I ended up with more feathers than anyone in the history of Kindergarten. And I was proud to bear the gifts of my classmates.

I hadn't cut along the lines perfectly. No one could read my name. I would search out lace-less shoes for the rest of my existence. But somehow all of those six-year-olds were able to see something of value in me and provide a visible, tangible celebration of that value. I've rarely felt that special.

Tonight I was feeling sorry for myself. I had shattered a Pyrex dish, burned a loaf of bread, under-coooked the bean soup for dinner, lost my temper with a tired and cranky three-year-old, and permanently abandoned the hope of ever having 100% of my laundry done at one time.

And then my Daddy called.

We chatted about mortgages, back pain, swine flu, our Savior, the scriptures, faith, family, memories, and more.

And at the end of our call, he told me how proud of me he is.

He said that I was a feather in his cap.

And I felt special, all over again.

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Manses: All Are Welcome

Most kids go through a phase when they love action figures. But my husband and his siblings created a unique name for action figures that has been passed down to a new generation of children.

Manses.

Man + zes

I've studied every possible etymological evolution that could have led us from action figures to manses, and finally determined that manses means multiple action figure men who have little regard for grammar.

Or something like that.

And in case you are wondering...the singular form of the word manses, is mans.

But just like nearly every other word in the English language, (and many of the made up words my children have subsequently added) manses has morphed to mean more than just it's initial meaning. Apparently the manses have a fairly inclusive club.

This is a whole group of mans...hence they are called as a collection "manses". There are many of them. They are all strong and manly. Sort of.

This mans is actually the leader of a faction of intelligent robots. He can transform into a tractor trailer rig. He's earned the title of mans, even though he's not human because of his willingness to protect all forms of life. Also, the position of Robot Ambassador needed to be filled quickly.

This is a ninja. He is also a mans. His enviable stash of weapons makes all the other manses jealous. Luckily he's willing to share a nunchuk or two with other manses who've had their weapons suffer any untimely vacuum cleaner death.

This is a bad mans. Nobody really wanted to let him join the club, but bad guys are hard to come by, and he proved sturdy when he was tested for initiation by the infamous "little sister chew toy" test.

This is in fact a shark.

None of the other manses have the heart to tell him that he doesn't belong.

This one is actually a girl. There was an issue with gender equality...so she had to be let in. She spends most of her days lobbying for a name change. She's torn between
Wo-Manses, and SPAWM (Society for the Protection of Action Women and Men). The group votes in November.
Even Tom Selleck managed to get in.

This mans had an unfortunate training session with The Thing. He's really lost a lot of his swagger.

But, his other half has proved much more resilient since the accident and is really beginning to get ahead.

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Because He Knows Me So Well...

Tonight, I realized that I had promised the kids that they could take their lunches to school tomorrow. A quick look in the pantry revealed that unless the kids wanted to take rice or instant gravy mix, a trip to the store would be necessary.

I drug my feet, flailed my arms, and complained loudly to the dog about having to go grocery shopping when all I really wanted was my soft pillow and a cozy effortless novel that I'd almost memorized the words to.

Have I ever mentioned that I'm married to Prince Charming?

He swooped me up in his arms, carried me out to his gleaming silver charger of a mini-van, and turned a late night run to the grocery store into a laugh-fest.

And as we waited in line to check-out, he even slyly turned over the only remaining copy of Martha Stewart Living so that the impossible to recreate crafty elegance wouldn't tempt me into a guaranteed disappointment. I returned the favor by pretending that there were no white chocolate candy bars in any of the checkout lanes.

I had to laugh at how much fun I had on our atypical mini-date. 12 years of marriage down, with an eternity that I'm looking forward to.

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Tagging Photos

Every now and again I get a few minutes to myself. It's a rare enough occurrence that sometimes it takes me 2 1/2 minutes to realize those minutes are there, but it does happen.

This morning I had five minutes, and I decided the wisest use of my time would be to empty my memory card onto my computer, hoping that at some point in the future another five minutes would allow me the chance to actually view the photos, then later edit the photos, eventually share the photos, and maybe by the time my children sell my home, pilfer all of my stuff, and enroll me at the local retirement home...I'd eventually find five minutes to print those now vintage pictures for practical use.

I believe in setting long-term goals.

I plopped my memory card into the computer slot only to be greeted by this window.


Apparently my computer was giving me the option to tag these pictures so that they would be easier to find later on in the decade when I'd be given some more time to work with them. Excited by the chance that this might actually save some of my precious free time in the future, I thought long and hard about what tags would be best for this group of photos.

I had to use the one picture as a visual clue as to what moments I'd been trying to capture with my camera.

In this photo, we see my husband giving a long overdue trim to our son's hair. He's wearing his church softball t-shirt. A t-shirt that was accidentally ordered 2 sizes too small, and was further shrunk by his wife's superior laundry ability. In the background of the photo, there's a nice shot of our not-yet-clean electric grill, and a stack of stuff that needs to be filed.


And I still had 1 free minute to use the bathroom.

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