41

41 pages is a good start on a book. $41 is spent way too fast. 41 carbs is (almost) 2 pieces of bread. 41 days is too far off to think about right now. For 41 minutes I can endure just about anything, even running. 41 years is starting to freak me out.

what could be

Yesterday was the day my dad was born. He's been gone for years now, but I still miss him terribly. He wasn't perfect, my dad, but he embodied possibility. There was no "I can't" in my dad; there was only "let's try" and "we'll see."

A dream could be one or a million steps away from real life, but either way, it was worth a shot. So what if it ended in a pile of failed attempts? We were no worse off for trying and, no doubt, learned something new along the way.

I hope to instill possibility in my kids, the way my dad instilled it in me. I pray they will (sometimes) ignore my warnings of what will be and embrace what could be instead.

utah in march

For at least 6 weeks I've felt restless and worn. There have been a few days when I've crawled into bed, fully dressed, to get warm. And then today it was Spring. I know it won't last - not in Utah, in March. But for one lovely hour I worked my land. I could feel the sun through the coat on my back; I could feel it burning my face. As I walked, the ground was soft beneath my feet, not dried out and parched from the heat. Even the weeds were a hopeful shade of green, all mossy and wet. I know it won't last - not in Utah, in March. But for a minute I stood perfectly still, took a breath of fresh air, and felt completely at peace.

o-we-o-s and black binkies

I love having tween and teen children. They are independent, clever, have interesting, thought-provoking questions and stories, and make some pretty good jokes. But sometimes, I wonder if we are still speaking the same language. A simple question is answered with a resounding, "I AM!" (when clearly they are not), a caveman shrug-and-grunt, or the oft-heard "GEEEEEZ!"

For the most part, I don't let this language phase bother me. I know it's just their age. But it does make me miss my little stinkers and their sweet baby-kid talk...

I actually can't remember when Abby first started to talk, although I know she was very young. I have a journal entry from when she was not yet 2 and had ridden the city bus with Dave. There had been a big thunder storm which she referred to as "raining noises." I also remember her naming the bunny she got for Easter that year. She named him "Bunny." When we pressed her for more, she just said, "Bunny." As the year went on, though, she added a first and a middle name, so that his full name was, and still is, "Funny Funny Bunny."

At 3, her command of the English language was quite good, except for a few problems with speech and schema. Two very frustrating experiences involved our own misunderstanding.

The first was when Dave took her to Dairy Queen where she asked him for an ice-cream cone. Simple enough. He got her the cone, but she burst into tears, refusing to eat it. Several cones later, we realized she actually wanted a sundae, with a cup and a spoon and chocolate sauce. When I explained this thing was called a sundae, she didn't believe me. A "Sunday" is the day you go to church.

The second experience also led to tears. We stopped at a gas station to fill up our car. Dave went in to get some drinks and while Abby and I waited, she told me we needed some "o-we-o." I thought she meant Oreos and told her no, but she kept repeating the request. By the time Dave got back, she was in tears. He asked what was wrong and (like all good Dads) went in and bought her some. But she wouldn't take them. She just kept saying the word, "o-we-o." When Dave took her into the gas station and asked her to show him what she wanted, she pointed to a bottle of oil. She thought the car needed oil and was crying because we couldn't understand her. Poor kid!

Max is the opposite of Abby in so many ways, and language was no different. He spoke only the most rudimentary words until he was well over 2 and even those were simplified; A-da for Abby, Da-Da for Daddy, Ma for Mama, etc. The few things he learned to say clearly early on were all about cars. He loved cars. When he saw one he liked he would say, "Oh, wow!" He loved the Mazda car commercials too and recognized them on the road. Pointing, he would shout out, "Zoom Zoom!"

As he got older and used more words, he struggled with schema too. Once, while traveling, he woke up in the middle of the night, crying for a "binkie." Since he had never taken a pacifier, both Dave and I were confused. We offered him everything we could think of, but nothing worked. When we probed for more information, all he added was the color black. It didn't help. Finally, Dave drove him to the gas station. Max stopped crying, walked over to the Hostess rack and picked up a package of chocolate donuts. As far as we could tell, "binkie" was his word for "twinkie," which Abby always got. And whenever Abby got a twinkie, he got the chocolate donuts so, in his mind, they were "black binkies."

If only our communication problems were this sweet and simple now. I suppose we could still be having schema issues. Like lumping questions in with accusations. But it is heartening to look back and see how far we have come. In a few more years, I will, no doubt, look back on these teenage years and laugh, "Remember how cute it was when the kids would yell 'I know' after everything we told them? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"

stupid presidents

My son is worried he will be the only one in his class watching "The Obama Speech" tomorrow. It was delayed because our school district opted out the day it was originally shown, then realized they looked like they weren't supporting the President and sent a letter around asking people to send a form if they don't want their kids to watch the President on tv at school tomorrow.

You know, for 8 years we had a president I didn't vote for. I could have "opted out" of supporting him. But I didn't. I supported the stupid Republican president - maybe now we could all support the stupid Democratic president...

After all, as that one annoying country song says, I'm proud to be an American - not I'm proud to be a Republican...

on my best day

I woke suddenly last night thinking of an old friend. As I lay there, I realized I have known her, quite literally, as long as I can remember and memories flooded my mind: playing Barbies at her house when we were very young, playing games and going to dances with her and a large group of friends, long talks about boys.

I remember working as partners in French class, watching as she defended her beliefs (and mine) in an Advanced English Lit class to a wonderful but obstinate teacher who doubled as a debate coach.

I remember sharing a business class to which she once came in late (beaming) with the only excuse the teacher said he would ever accept - she had been hit by an STA bus (luckily she was in her car), and a wild and week-long scavenger hunt resulting, ultimately, in invitations from our dates to the junior prom.

I have memories of accompanying her as she sang at so many events, always with a beautiful voice and a smile. And I have memories of her in college. Although we didn't see each other as much, when we did, it felt like nothing had changed.

The semester my brother Mark died, I ran into her on campus. She asked how things were going and reluctantly I told her my woes. Based on other friends' reactions, I wasn't sure what to expect. College kids are not adept at responding appropriately to tragic situations. But Anna was different. I remember her response, because it mirrored my own emotions. She empathized perfectly and made me feel like my grief was okay.

Among all these thoughts, there was one thing I couldn't remember. I couldn't think of an instance when Anna spoke an unkind word, or was caught up in some silly social drama. I couldn't think when she had ever lacked faith, or complained about anything she was expected to do. I couldn't think of a single time when Anna had been anything less than a perfect example.

For several years after college, Anna and I were out of touch. An occasional Christmas card let us know what was going on, but it wasn't until last year that I was able to keep up more with her life. Not surprising, in the face of her very real challenges, which surpass some of my darkest dreads, it is clear Anna has not changed.

She is amazingly patient and positive, steadfast and stalwart where others would simply give up.

If I, on my best day, could be what Anna is on her worst, I will have made great strides.

pot roast on sundays

I don't serve pot roast on Sundays. This may not seem like a big deal, but the big Sunday meal is kind of ingrained in my religious culture. I would say a large number of women in my church have their Sunday dinners prepared before I am typically awake on a Sunday morning. Simmering away in a crock-pot or slipped in the oven just before church, their families arrive home to the lovely aroma of meat and potatoes.

Not mine. When we get home, all things edible are fair game. Fend for yourself or starve. If we haven't gorged ourselves on snacking, I might make dinner later that night but sometimes, I am ashamed to admit, we make cookies or caramel popcorn after church and no one is hungry come dinner time.

The problem with this (aside from the general nutritional issues) is my enormous sense of guilt about my lackadaisical attitude toward Sunday dining. I long ago realized it's not the pot roast I feel bad about, but the event of a big shared meal. Something different and important to mark the Sabbath as special.

In the years that have followed this realization, I have implemented several new "traditions" for Sunday meals (waffles for dinner, leftover day, brunch right after church) but none of them have stuck. Some of them were just bad ideas (leftovers!) but the biggest problem was that none of them really lent themselves to time shared together in the kitchen or at the table. There was nothing special about them.

Another tradition I have been wanting to start is a weekly home-made pizza night. Last week I brought it up again. I suggested we try it on Fridays, but we never know what a Friday will bring, and Saturdays are no better. Dave suggested we try Sundays. I stared at him blankly. Pizza on Sundays? It seemed wrong somehow. But it makes perfect sense for us and it couldn't be worse than waffles or leftovers.

Last night we tried it. After a nap and watching a movie with the kids, I started the dough and then called everyone up to help. Abi made the sauce - with full control over seasoning. Max helped with the veggie prep and put on the cheese. Dave was in charge of the meat (sausage) and I sauteed the flavor (onions, garlic, peppers). The pizza turned out beautifully!

It took some tenacity, on my part, to keep everyone in the kitchen, but over time I think it could fulfill all my Sunday meal dreams: family togetherness, a meaningful meal and (start to finish) no more than an hour and a half.

It may be a little unorthodox, but I think that makes it even better!