You need a ride home from a friend’s house, but the back seat is full of old junk. And since it is almost midnight, you hold that enormous television or light fixture on your lap because you are out of options to get home.
You get shuffled from driver to driver.
You can drive, but your mom has to be with you.
You might not get a ride at all because your mom forgets to turn up her phone.
(I am feeling sorry today for Timothy and the realities of being fifteen.)
I hope his date, “Mary Poppins” had as much fun preparing her costume as we had preparing Daniel’s.
Yesterday this blog turned nine years old. I didn’t think of it until this morning. Instead of commemmorating, I spent some time installing a plug-in to make the blog private. I think Richard has talked me out of closing off the blog to most visitors. As I contemplate a tenth year of blogging, I realize the main reasons for beginning a blog are gone. My parents returned from their mission. We live closer to family and can see them more often. I am no longer home schooling and needing validation for it. The kids are much older now, and there are no more cute baseball pictures and ballet recitals to share. Milestones such as graduation, a mission, an internship, driving, and our baby turning twelve are coming, and I don’t feel the clarity to write something worthy of these moments. I look at my first posts, the kids eating a treat and playing baseball in Arizona, and feel the difference in our situation deeply. We are not here to stay the same, as these years have shown. But Paige is still the one that inspires us to pull together for traditional meals and activities and she is still creating art. Daniel continues to inspire awe with his creations and surprise us with his mature insights. Timothy still disarms me with his smile and shows steady excellence in all he does. Mark remains affectionate and is a bright, entertaining companion. Richard sits at the same desk and works in the yard. I fuss about the house and carve out time to read and write between driving people places. In some things, we are what we have always been, just more full in the expression of them. Thank you for checking in on us.
I was away from the house yesterday afternoon at a rainy Ultimate Frisbee game in Alpine when this picture showed up on my phone, taken by my neighbor Lindsay. I was glad for an update on our little circle of houses and to see that Daniel was home, as the van he drives was in the shot. I couldn’t believe how similar this rainbow was to the one I was seeing in Alpine.
This was the picture that I had just taken, a mountain apart from our home:
I am taking it as a reminder that God knows where we live and where we spend our days. He knows what I am worried about and has solutions. He knows we are feeling opposition knows that we need reminders now and then that he is with us.
I don’t think “conflict” is the word that describes my relationship with my kids, but I earned the Broken Heart, Bravery During Driver’s Training, and Legion of Worry just this week. I am not a candidate for Outstanding Restraint this week, and the dishes are not done.
I read a book about how to write a memoir, and there was a chapter about creating a persona. The authors contrasted their writing personas with their true personalities. Each was very funny in writing, but admitted that in person, she was more complicated. One even shared she was a bit depressive.
I like to think that the overall positive, thoughtful persona I try to nurture here is my truest self, but maybe it is not.
I am a reclusive, sensitive, intense person who is often exhausted after basic interactions with people. I interrupt Richard and try to finish his thoughts as he is speaking. I can be abrupt and I don’t like family reunions. I have a terrible sugar habit and hate to exercise. There is a smell in our house that has been here since we moved in and I can’t stand it. It is endlessly frustrating. I suffer emotionally when one of my family members is sick. I am struggling to find purpose in house work. I wonder if I will ever ice skate again, or make the time to go to a special bookstore. I regret that I don’t enjoy most vacations. I regret that the collagen and elastin in my skin gave out before I ever had a good tan. I don’t regret that I wear hats and got braces as an adult. I don’t regret home schooling. I love the sunlight in the kitchen in the morning and the sound of my violin when I am thinking about something. I sip a mug of warm milk at least once a day. I need to be courageous to be fulfilled. I keep a lot of secrets. I love dill, sourdough bread, and fashion. I wish I had a telephone friend, one who would call me, and I would never have to call her. In exchange, she would never want for a good listener. I wish I had a pen pal. And that is enough of this nonsense.
This video is really lame, but I felt so sad today as I ironed Daniel’s church shirt that I turned up the music to perk myself up. I won’t get to do this little service much longer.
Ed Sheeran is my sound track to life lately. Don’t judge.
10:30 pm Sunday night. I am recovering well from a hand laceration. Richard still has no energy after the flu. The boys play trumpet and piano while we rest.
Last Sunday Timothy gave a talk in church with 30 minutes to prepare. He did so well!
Timothy and Mark played in a piano recital on Tuesday night.
It was a good week to be a parent.
Daniel advanced to a regional level in the Sterling scholar competition.
Daniel was named a National Merit Finalist.
Paige began work towards a summer internship in New York.
I finished hand-quilting my international doll quilt. I will finish the binding some other day.
Richard and I watched the John Adams miniseries, except when my eyes were closed during the violence and 18th century surgeries.
We watched Wonder. Tears streamed freely for me.
I can’t type this week as my hand heals, so this is it for a while.
A line of light from the kitchen streams beneath our bedroom door: someone is up early.
The pantry door squeaks: the boys are hungry.
No sounds from the basement bedroom: someone has slept in.
The rumble of the garage door: someone is returning or leaving.
The squeal of pipes through the wall: someone is in the shower.
The floor shakes with muted explosive sounds: someone is watching a Star Wars movie with surround sound in the basement.
Ding! A message from Richard or Paige
Bing! A message from Timothy
Chime! A message from Daniel
Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap: the dog needs to come back inside.
“Here’s to the Fools who Dream…”: I am doing dishes or mopping.
Sniff, sniff beneath the door: the dog is looking for Richard.
Bwa ha ha ha: Mark is watching YouTube videos.
Scratchety scratch scratch: the dog is cold and needs to come inside.
Clickety clickety clickety clickety: Daniel is typing.
Long, sullen pauses and no eye contact: oh, boy, am I in trouble.
Crinkle, crinkle: I turn the pages of my scriptures.
Beeeeeeep, beeeeeeep: the chicken is cooked.
Blat blat blat: trombone practice
Toot toot toot: trumpet practice
Brrrrrruuum, diddly dum: a son practices piano.
Ping, pingy ping: Paige is playing the piano.
Lawrence Welk is on: it’s haircut time.
The hallway floor creaks: someone is looking for me.
Light streams beneath our bedroom door: someone is up late.
Longer stretches of silence each day: the kids are growing up and leaving.
Last week was a wrestle. I wrestled with church dilemmas, the clock, illnesses, and expectations. But there was a three-tiered cake one night, and clean surfaces everywhere, evidence that when I am doing mental work, physical work goes right along with it.
Last week, there was so much calling me to stay home with the family. They needed my skills, my advice, my health, my early mornings, late nights, afternoon errands, and my touch.
Last week’s lessons: