January 13, 2010

Peripatetic:Good Morning Hawaii, this is my gift to you.

Word of the Week: Peripatetic.

(Back by popular request….wait, how many requests does it take to be popular vs. just noticeably absent….)

per·i·pa·tet·ic

adj.

1. Walking about or from place to place; traveling on foot.
2. Peripatetic Of or relating to the philosophy or teaching methods of Aristotle, who conducted discussions while walking about in the Lyceum of ancient Athens.

n.

1. One who walks from place to place; an itinerant.
2. Peripatetic A follower of the philosophy of Aristotle; an Aristotelian.

FYI: We are going with definition numero uno for this one as I haven’t been meeting up with ol Aristotle lately….
Not my brightest moment...

I caused a small traffic accident today.

It was just a little bumper bumping really. I would like to blame it on the awesome maternity shirts that my sister sent me. (Aren’t sister’s who send you clothing when you are in the dire need for some cuteness in your life just the greatest?) The shirt was green. A nice apple green. So, on me it naturally looks like a green apple.
Cheery eh?
I had just crossed a mini crosswalk that accommodates traffic turning right, and was patiently for the light to change on the busiest intersection near our home.

I was late.

But, I had insisted on walking because I am peripatetic. I can’t help it. I prefer to walk. I have driving issues. Besides, my husband says my mood improves greatly when I get enough exercise. I believe him.
So there I am, standing at this busy intersection with my jogging stroller, while wearing a apple green shirt that made me look like an apple.
And I am late.
So I turned my ipod on for some “hurry up this waddle” inspiration.
It delivered me some Gwen.
As, in Stefani. An artist I wouldn’t have found had I not been so technologically backward that I would upload my own music. But I can’t/have not. So instead my ipod holds all the same tunes it arrived with (I was ipod sitting while by brother was on a mission so its got a plethora of Motab) and then an amalgamation of eccentric bands thanks to a friend named Chip who was aghast that I hadn’t heard of Snow Patrol.

Moving this story along.
Gwen starts singing about a Sweet Escape.

I am a dancer people. Albeit a green apple dancer.
So there in the intersection I start snapping my fingers. (Help me out and do an over head clap here). Then a little hip up and down action. Pretty soon I was really getting into it.
Then the little white man lit up and said I could cross.
So I step pointed across the whole intersection while left turners gaped in unbelief.

And then a car rear-ended another car.
Because a dancing green apple was taking too long to get to the other side.
Good Morning Hawaii, this was my gift to you.


Love,
The pregnant girl with a great new green apple shirt.
And Belle
(cause she was there)
And Gwen.
(who would have been there if she could).
(not!)
P.S. Tomorrow I am wearing the supremely citrus shirt. I can’t wait to see what damage I can do.

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January 11, 2010

How to spell Haole

Fact: My husband sproke Russian.

def: Sproke; He spoke it fluently a while back  and kind of speaks it, mostly when I’m not supposed to understand him, now. Sproke.

Fact: The word for soup in Russian is: суп. Say, “Shee”

http://www.thedailyspud.com/2010/01/06/the-mighty-borscht/

Fact: Hawaii is an amalgamation of many wonderful different cultures. Each culture contributes and borrows from one another.

Fact: We ain’t Hawaiian.

This doesn’t stop my two year old from terrorizing her father by using common Hawaiian phrases. Please, don’t ask us where the phrases come from. We are still trying to figure out how to spell Haole.

Belle: (sitting in high chair and covered with “doodles” waving hands to signify she is “all done”) “MOM MOM MOM MOM”

Me: “What?”

Belle: “All pow!”

Jace: “What is she saying?”

Me: “She is done. She said it, and she signed it. Can’t you tell?”

Jace: “No, she said all pow. Not, all done.”

We have many conversations like this one. Belle is quite cunning actually, and notices it bugs her dad to speak “Hawaiian.”

Fact: In Hawaii children “MAKE SHE SHE” instead of “Going Potty”.

Do you see where I am headed with this?

Another Conversation:

Belle: “Dad Dad Dad!!!!.”

Jace: “Yes?”

Belle: “SHE SHE!!!!!!”

Jace: “What?”

Me: “She has to make she she!”

Jace: (confused) “We don’t say She she, we say potty!”

Belle: (coyly) “NO MAKE SHE SHE!”

Jace: (Mad) “We only make Shee shee when we are going to take it to someone!”

"Dad, that is just weird!"

Aren’t languages fun? At least around here they are.  Actually, one of the things that I have enjoyed about living here in Hawaii has been the “little things”. You know, the little confusing things that people do here that are so unlike how we are used to doing them.

Hawaii really is so different than I expected it to be, and I am suspecting, how most tourists see it.

So for fun, come on a little trip down “A Haole in Hawaii” lane with me.

Before I begin I would like to explain one thing: Hawaiians really are the nicest people you will ever meet. I haven’t lived everywhere in the U.S., but I have probably visited. Hawaiians have the Aloha spirit down. So, with that in mind please know that as I poke fun of them, it is with the warmest of my intentions. :)

1. The name game.

I’ve given up trying to say people’s names correctly. Let’s just say they use a lot of vowels and are epically creative. This, I expected. I mean, we are dealing with Samoans, New Zealanders, Tongans,  Japanese, Chinese, Filipino, and multiple combination’s of the above.  It is no wonder that names here sound “curious” to me. What I didn’t expect was the name length.

Jonah  Ikaika Aiko Willard Kinimaka Kahanamoku.

Try to fit that on your drivers license. :) Funny, my husband complained about me giving Belle ONE middle name! Harder still is the fact that  my cute little nursery kids are rather bipolar to which of these many names they would like to be called.

I usually start of class by saying, “Good morning! Please tell me what all of you would like to be called to today.” It saves me trouble when someone is hanging off the chandeliers and not responding to my frantic pleas to get down only because I am using the wrong name.

2. What’s for dinner. Really.

Spam Musabi meet blog reader. Blog reader meet Spam Musubi.

http://www.somuchmorehawaii.com/2009/05/30/another-tasty-hawaiian-treat-spam-musubi/

Spam Musubi is like the equivalent of a peanut butter sandwich…but its made out of spam, and rice…two things you cannot survive without here in Hawaii. And no, Spam is not the mutt of the meats. That would be Baloney! (I crack myself up!)

Other fun Hawaiian foods: The red hot dog. (Why are they always red?!?) The Loco Moco: Rice, hamburger patty, fried egg, and gravy. (I would eat one but my Dr. already thinks I am gaining weight too fast!). You can also expect dried shrimp to appear in everything from Chex Mix to salads. Wonder how something would taste pickled? You could probably buy it here, and at Walmart.

I love that when I ask my nursery students what their favorite food is, I rarely hear pizza, or macaroni and cheese. Instead, I get elaborate demonstrations on how to suck the heads off shrimp. (No really, it was funny, but didn’t make me all that hungry!)

3. The bonus room. Garages are not for cars. If you park your car in your garage it would be like parking it in the kitchen, or on the front porch. Because, garages are the bonus rooms. To some, it is the front porch. (Many a night we have gone for late walks to pass house after house of people sitting in their garages “talking story”, or eating dinner, or watching the game.

4. How to Celebrate New Years. Did I tell you about New Years? Oh yea, I didn’t because it would have went something like this: ” So far, this decade stinks–all ninety minutes of it. I should have expected this when people started “practicing” for New Years back on Thanksgiving, or when they came out of Costco with $1,000 worth of fireworks. What I didn’t account for was the fact that EVERYONE on my street would be setting off fireworks from six p.m. until three a.m. And um, they aren’t just fireworks, they are bombs. I feel like a “Battle of Bunker Hill” survivor. I have post traumatic stress syndrome. And no, the fireworks don’t gain in appeal the longer you set them off. Pretty much, after two hours, they are all the same.”

So yea. That pot banging you did had nothing on what we heard here.

5. Who we share the Island with.
Every morning when I go out to my garage I suffer small heart palpations. I suppose they are good for me because I haven’t died yet. Usually, its just because the wall moves. (Gecko’s sleep more than they sell car insurance). Sometimes its those wretched cockroaches–ew–;t he occasional snail trails; (Slimers); and, occasionally you get to meet one of these:

http://www.seattlebugsafari.com/Images/African-Millipede-Jason.jpg

I’m not too found of them either, but they do have a bright side. They make the fact that my kitchen gets overrun with sugar ants seem like an anti-problem. I mean, I will allow a couple of sugar ants floating in my glass water over one of those dudes hissing at me any day.

That is probably enough for today. Wasn’t it fun! I bet you can’t wait for me to tell you about Vog and the smell of Ahi! Patience Iago. Hawaii isn’t going anywhere.

Photo by Clark Little

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January 5, 2010

You are X here.

This is my mom’s dog, and horse.

–Well, he is really a pony but that’s because he drank coffee as a foal and it stunted his growth. He also has small man’s disease and thinks that he is a Clydesdale. Anyway, the dog and the pony are friends. Really.

For some reason I keep coming back to this picture, thinking  that like some labored-over impressionistic art, that it has some deeper meaning. And, somehow that meaning fits with this post, though you will have to come to your own conclusion as to how they are incorporated.

You are X here.

You know those maps at the mall that are put in place on the rare chance that someone like me, who wasn’t born with a shopping beacon, needs directions to find their way from one end to the other? Usually, there is a big arrow pointing to the exact place that you are standing with the words, “You are X here.”

That is what the close of a year does for me.

This kind of confuses me, because I set goals all the time, and I therefore gawf at the idea of a “New Year’s Resolutions.”

This may be because there seems to be a lack of originality in the making of said resolutions (Loose weight, get out of debt, be “nicer”, eat healthier, ….run a marathon) and the vast majority of people who make these resolutions fail.

In fact, I almost feel superstitious about goals made at the beginning of the year–because I don’t want to fail.

Despite all of this, I feel like a phase has ended in my life. Like book shut, like case closed, like THE END. And it happened on day one of this new year.

Does it seem vain to feel so certain that a phase has ended, when in looking at this upcoming year so much will be the same?

-have a baby. (Again).

-pack my house send it across the ocean. (Again).

-find a new place to live. (Again).

-Survive plane rides with children. (Again).

-Move in to new house. (Again).

-Husband start new job. (Again).

-Find new doctor, dentist, grocery store, and friends. Change insurance, license plates, postal address, and habits. (Again).

-Start over. Period. (Again).

That my friends, is a lot of “agains”.

Now I am going to change the subject on you. I have been reading this really great book called, “The Artist’s Way.” by  Julia Cameron. In it she offers this pithy amuse bouche of her genius. She says in chapter 7  something so perfect for all you goal setting, resolve to do better, people that I just have to share it, because it might just give you an epiphany so loud, that even your two year old will say, “What was that noise?” (To which my two year old would then answer in all her potty trained, vocabulary rich, glory, “ITS A TOOT!” And it is a toot. An epiphonic toot.)

She writes, “Jealousy is a map.”

Whoa.

So I am looking at my life and the big “You are here” sign, and I know where I want to get to, and you are saying that jealousy is my map?

I always thought Jealousy was a bad thing.

So bad that we don’t admit to it.

Instead, we criticize those who have what we want. We whisper about the cruise that they went on, how skinny they are, how much time they spend on themselves, and how big a show off they are about running that marathon/being so successful with their business/having so many friends.

Goodness! Jealousy has a nasty guise doesn’t it?

And all it wants to do is to help you!

It wants to help you see what you want, but you think you cannot have.

Are all our desires good?

Perhaps not. Maybe we give our gimmes  shots of steroids and we really don’t need a $2, 000 handbag. (Notice how I picked something extravagant that I would never want because there is so much more detachment in doing that then admitting my own frivolous wants!)

However, begrudging someone because they are crazy successful might just mean….YOU WANT TO BE SUCCESSFUL!

Griping about the friend who is too organized might just mean…YOU WANT TO BE MORE ORGANIZED!

Complaining that you don’t have enough money to fix your car and then demeaning the Jones’s new van might mean….(You spent too much on Christmas!) Oh wait, lets get back into the flow of things….Here we go: YOU WANT TO BE BETTER AT HANDLING YOUR MONEY SO THAT YOU CAN DO FUN THINGS AND STILL FIX YOUR CAR!

Can you see we are on a roll here?

Jealousy might just be telling you were to go.

Where is it? The gym? To a money management class? To a entrepreneur seminar? On a date? To library to become an expert on rocks?

Now, back to me. Where do I want to go? Well, Jealousy is telling me that I envy skinny people. Writing that just made me laugh because my ribs hurt already from being so rolly polly pregnant. I want to be skinny and still get to get thick wedge french fries. :) Can you make that happen?

I am also jealous of people who get to drop their kids off at their parents house so they can go on a date, or get a free meal whenever they please.

I am jealous of people who are confidant in their talents and assertive with their opinions.

I am jealous of motivation, success, and diligence.

I am jealous of people who live near mountains.

I am jealous of cool temperatures.

I am jealous of people who are not afraid to go into labor and who have babies “easily”.

I am jealous of people who don’t have emotional breakdowns when they are sleep deprived.

I am jealous of people who have better grammar and punctuation than I do.

I am jealous of people who have tame hair that looks nice.

I am jealous of people who get to dance for a living.

I am jealous of Stephine Meyer (Oie that was painful to admit) Shannon Hale, Aprilyne Pike, and Jackson Pearce because they beat me to my dream. (Even though they can’t write my story).

I am jealous of job security.

I am jealous of people who are outgoing and have a lot of friends.

Hmmmm. I didn’t mean to admit that much. And now that I have I am thinking of even more things that I really like about myself–which is a good thing. Still, the jealousy is there as a guide for me.  It helps me see some places to work on and an exact way to get  there.  It means I have to change habits, goals, and attitudes.

I can now be like a growth stunted pony and just keep eating this here grass.  Or, I can give slack to the lead and see where this dog takes me.

Happy 2010

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December 30, 2009

The Super-Sonic-Ultra-Sensitive-Guilt-O-Meter

Google images cannot find a guilt-o-meter. So you get this instead.

The Super-Sonic-Ultra-Sensitive-Guilt-O-Meter

You must know something about me, and to know it you have to hear from me, because I myself have just discovered it in in the catacombs of my genetic wiring.

I came to earth with a super-sonic-ultra-sensitive-guilt-o-meter.

It is a Jimminy Cricket on Steroids.

An inaudible voice that cajoles my better senses.

It is a computer worm in my brain that would make the whole system shut down if removed. (Is this because I am a PC instead of a Mac? Dang!)

Do you have one?

It looks like a smile layered like a transparency atop a slightly worried face when asked to do something outrageously inconvenient, and that might just drive you batty, but you cannot well enough (due to personal worth deflation) justify neglecting the asked task when your first choice option is simply keeping your own sanity.

It feels like that tug to apologize when you have said something truthful, but hard to hear, to someone you love, but tend to enable.

It weighs as much as your worries.

It costs you interest on personal clarity.

And, it will never fail to work though its strength may wan during infrequent and unexpected moments of relief.

I believe, some things like this, are inherited, as I inherited mine. In fact, I am certain the model installed in me is the very same, stone age, version still ticking in my mother.

Perhaps that is why we are such good friends, we both have parts that need exactly the same tweaking.

I also believe that if kept in check, my super-sonic-ultra-sensitive-guilt-o-meter can be used for good. But oh, is it hard to keep in check.

I jealously admire, and secretly analyze people who love to tell things like they see them. Such freedom! They spout off opinions knowing that eyebrows will be raised, feelings bruised, and whispered debates to ensue. One of these very people told me something curious that has shed light on my own issues–a point I find quite spectacular since it would seem we are seated on opposite ends of teeter-toter of social interactions.

The person confessed. “I say shocking things because, number one, I believe them. But, I also like to test people. I want to know if they will love the outrageous me, the radical me, the hard to understand me. If they do, I will continue to test them–but I will believe in their affections because they had to work so hard for them.”

The admittance of the testing is what bounced around in my brain, knocking porcelain thoughts off my frontal lobe.

I want people to love the outrageous me! The radical me! The hard to understand me! But, I was pre-programmed to be a peacemaker! I am a cat being pet tail to head if I have to disagree with someone! The little man who sits on my shoulder with his briefcase full of my opinions squeaks, “I’m outta here!” and then vanishes the minute the muscular mood of contention flexes his voice in my direction.

The free spirited, free thinker, free speaker, who has no qualms about telling even a close friend to poke it–just wants to be loved.

The super-sonic-ultra-sensitive–guilt-o-meter-ridden me–just wants to be loved.

And yet, the one tests others, while I test myself.

I test myself by how many times I can give funds to someone who desperately needs it for some recent emergency even though they spent quadraoodles on new furniture, don’t even blink when spending money on themselves, and they eat out every meal.  (Oh, the luxury).

I test myself by how many times I politely change the subject when a stinging comment is made, because confronting the issue could ensue in argument, and…(see above cat analogy).

I test myself by making excuses for the friend who hasn’t fulfilled their duty, has offended others, and possibly myself, because I can’t stand for someone to be picked on.

I test myself by believing in the value of others opinions over my own, even when it is as simple as maple extract vs coconut extract for the frosting of a sugar cookie.  (BTW coconut is better, especially if you live in Hawaii, but maple is not offensive and you should not throw out a batch of perfectly maple-lishous cookies merely on the opinion of….where was I going?)

I test myself, and I test myself, and eventually an x-ray of my life’s zest starts to look like four hundred year old marshmallow fluff slopped over the heel of a burnt piece of toast.

Now wait!

Not all guilt is bad. Oh no! If you kick a hole in the wall because your sister is playing the piano too loud and your mom has a telephone call, and you get so angry that you have to hear that wretched song one more time….you should apologize. Even if it is fifteen years later.

(Sorry Mom. Sorry Brooke.)

My reflections are perhaps more to summon up some sympathy from those who do love me.

When I do hold strong and say, “No. These maple cookies are perfectly acceptable to take to friends, not just to our worst enemies, “ please know that I am taking one small step for human kind towards tweaking my guilt-o-meter to working properly.

When you ask me if I can watch your kids, who were just diagnosed with H1N1, and I say, “No, but I’ll make you chicken soup!” Please know, that I am feeling ruffled denying your request, but feeling a small victory for acknowledging my own limitations.

When I disagree with your political opinion, when I ask you to call another time, when I admit I need help, when I admit I cannot help, when I seem to not be hearing your subtle manipulations, when my eyes glaze over and my right shoulder starts to twitch…

You are witnessing my New Years Resolution to be assertive.

Not to be abrasive. Assertive. Confidant. Honest.

God put me on earth with a super-sonic-ultra-sensitive-guilt-o-meter so that I could be empathetic, sympathetic, charitable, and loving.

But, he also gave me some pretty important passions, and perhaps he wants you to hear them. So I need to start scrapping the marshmallow fluff off of my opinion until it sparkles, and in the meantime, I will be calling my Uncle Claire to see if he tunes guilt-o-meter’s as well as he does piano’s. Because you know, mine needs some tweaking.

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December 12, 2009

I love her most first thing in the morning.

I love her most first thing in the morning.

When her cheeks are soft for the kissing,
her hair is light and wispy,
and her voice is rested and sweet.

I love her most during breakfast.
When we sit outside to eat,
She takes bites and says, “yum”
and we listen for birds and the wind.

I love her most when we have adventures.
Like shopping when she climbs onto the mechanical truck,
and drives“real fast,”
and then dances to overhead Beyonce,
 and waves at all the Asian tourists.

I love her most during lunch.
how she can’t eat with her shirt on,
and how she eats all her “ham” and then
gives me her bread,
and steals my “ham.”

I love her most during her nap
–but I miss her.

I love her most when we dance.
that she can fly like an airplane,
and spin like a wind charm,
and smile like me.

I love her most before bedtime.
kisses, fives, knuckles, hugs
repeat.

I love her most first thing in the morning.

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December 5, 2009

Graduation Day: a story about pee.

A week after I returned from an LDS mission to Washington D.C., my dad pulled up to our house driving a yellow Volkswagen bug.

The significance of that might not seem obvious to you if you didn’t know that:

A. I had wanted a YELLOW Volkswagen bug ever since I finished drivers ed for the second time.

B. My parents, in their wisdom, had NEVER handed me anything without requiring me to work for it and

C. My Dad had already broken the above rule by supporting me on a mission so that I could get home and marry the good looking man in the above picture.

Now, I have to clarify. The car was not mine. It was my Dad’s–which made me even more grateful/astonished/thrilled/happy/thankful. My Dad, in his 6 foot something spender, with his cowboy boots and signature hat, with his tool belt and house plans in tow, had enough confidence in his masculinity to drive a YELLOW, girl bug (she is wearing a bra) all around town for the month before I came home.

Then, he let me BORROW it for four months so that I could commute from college home every weekend so I could see the cute guy in the above picture. Then he kept it and drove it himself for over two years.

I have a really cool dad.

What I didn’t know, when I was handed the keys of this yellow machina who I named “Speedle the Beedle” was that I was being inducted into “The Bug Club”

And since you may have never driven a cute yellow Volkswagen bug before you may have not hear of “The Bug Club” I will tell you all about it.

If you own a  V-bug, and you see someone else who owns a V-bug…you are friends.

The rules are stretchy. New bug, old bug, same color bug, decked out bug, bug with bra, (girl bug) bug without bra (boy bug), bug with personalized license plate, bug driver young blond bopping out to Frank Sinatra, or bug driver six-foot- something taking phone calls from electrician…..it didn’t matter. You were in the club and you were bug friends. You smiled at each other. You waved. You let each other into traffic, and you flashed lights at each other (like a wink) at night.

I loved being in the bug club and I confessed this to my brother who had a motorcycle. He told me a secret, “There is a Motorcycle Club” too!

The rules to which,  are way more complicated (Different hand signals if your bike is bigger than the other guys…preferences towards makes and models etc….) and since I was never apart of this club I really can’t elaborate.

But isn’t it fun to know…that all these clubs exist?

Two weeks ago my sister was inducted into the “Poop club.” It is now ok for her to talk about poop. (Color, texture, quantity, viscosity, smell…)

I am so proud of her. She has changed her first diaper of many and is now in the club. She can tell poop stories to her hearts content.

Meanwhile, I have also been initiated into a club. This club is much like the poop club, but TOTALLY different in requirements.

There was three month of hazing.

Three months of washing sheets, underwear, pants, and car seat covers.
Three months carrying a padded toilet seat on four plane rides, to church, the grocery store, and to friends houses.
Three months of bribery, happy dances, treats, and Barney movies.
Three months of public bathrooms, airline bathrooms, gas station bathrooms,….and the side of the road. (Thank you Germ-X)
One episode where I cleaned pee and morning sickness off of Borders bathroom floor.
One episode where I abandoned six kids under five threatening the restriction of treats, while I dashed to the Nursery only to get there to late,  and to find I hadn’t packed extra clothes.
Three episodes in the bathtub where lumberjacks started floating logs from upstream.
Ten lessons about not touching everything in the bathroom.
Nine lessons about proper toilet paper unrolling techniques and how much can actually go down the toilet without calling the landlord.

And one shopping trip (surprisingly late in the hazing) where I was peed on three times before the insanity ended.

And then–it was over.

I am in the Potty Trained Toddler-Mom club.

It is still up in the air WHO actually got trained.

Regardless, we had a ceremony.

First, the wretched padded toilet seat and its 2,000 germs got the boot.

Then, a graduation speech from the validictorian. (Grades improve when you are the only one in your class.)

Then a hat tossing ceremony.

Where the hat was thrown AT me instead of up in the air and then the terrorist demands for treats were met.

So pretty much to get into this club I sacrificed:
-Dental hygiene (too many treats later)
-The luxury of finishing a meal without at least one trip to the bathroom.
-The constant threat that she really means it when she says she has to pee
–and lots of my sanity.

Yet, I don’t have to buy diapers or wipes for a glorious four more months.

Surprisingly, I am still content with the results.

Its not quite the Bug Club.

But its just as good.

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December 1, 2009

Rated Bellie Approved

Remember how I like to dance?

Remember how dance can magically save you from a bad day?

Remember how I am not teaching/performing/creating any real dance stuff but I still have to hang onto it because it is the one thing that never gets dejunked from my personality no matter where I move or what identity crisis I have?

Remember how I have indoctrinated my child early, and she loves Frank Sinatra like I do, has a rocking awesome hop-skip-trip-leap, and wants to wear a tutu all day?

Anyway, I am getting to a point here. I realize my posts have been skim-fastish. (As in, enough to make a reader starve). So starting this week “Word of the Week” AND the new “Rated Bellie Approved” begins along with (hopefully) my usual …stuff. (PS Brooke is on this sabbatical thing that seems pretty serious because she had this little baby and she likes him more than the internet…)

Rated Bellie Approved

Whats this?

Um. Its whatever I want, but is probably going to be something that will make you smile. (Unless you are the Grinch). And, it needs to inspire you to spin really fast in your office chair while you clap and bounce your shoulders. (Because that is what Bellie does and that’s how I know it is Rated Bellie Approved.)

One more thing. She was a fan of the puppet, but my applause goes to the grandma. The singers are pretty good too.

Enjoy!

Go dance!

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November 13, 2009

Ode to печенье Petchenya! (In D minor)

Sisters

Our childhood together can be encapsulated by one event; an event so simple yet memorable that it has been retold by more memories and versions then there were people who actually witnessed it.

Our family, and some guests had assembled in our upstairs living room and were seated on the couch facing the all-star of the room, a beautiful old grand piano.

We had all gathered to hear Brooke play something. No one can remember exactly what, or even how old she was. It seems that she was a master of the piano before she was a master of conversation, so that issue gets a bit blurry at times. It is sufficient to say that no matter what impressive thing she played, the more impressive thing was how young and serious she was at her craft.

I could lie and say I remember being jealous of her getting attention. (As some theorize) but I don’t remember that. I do remember later in life experiencing that particular emotion, but as far as this memory– I don’t even remember what I did, I have just been told about it so many times that I can almost remember doing it.

“Like Clark Kent into Superman,” Is how my dad always tells it.

He was referring to the fact that one moment I was listening, fawning, “Ohhhhing” like the rest of them, and then the next moment I appeared in a leotard, a hula skirt, and a lei. (Foreshadowing for my future residence maybe?)

I didn’t just appear. I arrived.

I twirled to center stage (or center room if you prefer) and began a vibrant display of some kicks and leaps.

The small audience came alive with laughter and clapping.

The enraged pianist played faster.

I copied a move from the Russian Dance in the Nutcracker where you hold your leg up to your head and spin really fast. The faster she played, the faster I spinned.

The pianist stopped.

I took a bow.

That is it. That is the whole story, but perhaps without saying anymore about US you can understand US better.

We are sisters.

Same thick hair, same funny knees, same big eyes, same mysterious bumps on our head.

But,

We never painted our toenails together.

We never stayed up late chatting about boys together.

We did not enjoy shopping together.

And we never SHARED clothing. (Unless you count how I “borrowed” most of her wardrobe while she was a missionary in Canada, and she dutifully returned the favor by “borrowing” my things when I served a mission in DC.)

We were not what  mothers envision when you hear the word sisters.

Yet I am starting to think that the typical assumptions of sisterhood might actually limit the possibilities.

There was a point that Brooke and I found an alliance of sorts. It is silly that it took us so long as I don’t think either of us would be the same without the other.

At times it was her radio-active personality traits that caused me to bend, to walk paths I wouldn’t have chosen without her, to develop character traits that were a repercussion of her influence rather than a natural evolution. Sometimes it was my existence, my defiance to everything she did, that caused her to bend, to see things differently, and to walk into a new paradigm. We were like two chemicals that refused to combine, but became different elements completely, because of the others existence.

And now, I like myself completely and I like Brooke just as much even though we have grave differences over unimportant things like Mac vs. PC and John Schmidt vs. Bach. She is my fellow artist spirit. We share passions, convictions, often opinions, and definitely memories. Oh am I grateful that I have a sister!

I am sure people wonder why when I share something about US I feel I have to give a history. And to that I respond, “Can’t you see? We have been unraveling each other our whole lives. And though neither of us are a finished knit, though both of us have vibrantly different colors, we are an inverted pattern of each other!”

What I am trying to write today isn’t so much about sisters as it is about Brooke, but I feel so invariably linked to the whole ordeal because of the preciousness of HER story, and my real evolving love for her.

Today my beautiful, talented, motivated, unique sister had her first baby!

I am miles away from her but I feel like if I were there I would be at the hospital window gawking at her child and telling nurses, and other visitors, “That’s MY nephew! MY sister brought him into the world!”And I would say it with more pride than I had when she played the lead in her school play, then when her compositions won awards and where published in magazines, then when her opera was performed, then when she graduated from college, went on a mission, got her master’s degree, started a business from scratch, and even when she baked her first loaf of bread.

If I could go to her hospital room I would bring her a medal as if she had just finished the Boston Marathon. (Because really, she practically did!) And even though I loved her before I feel that I love her even more now because there is a reverence that you gain for people when you know that they have gone to the deep dark place of pain and struggle,  that only hero’s and mother’s can emerge from. There is a birth of newness that envelopes a person when you know God has carved a great eternal principle on their souls.

Her birth story is hers to share, but her baby being here is a miracle.

As her sister I applaud her, congratulate her and her wonderful spouse, and offer deep thanks that I have her in my life. ( I suppose here would be a good place to insert a thanks to my mother for her similar marathon and the fact that she didn’t stop with just one…or the “sister” part of this story would never have been written…)

Congratulations Brooke and Ben!

Я тебя люблю!

Love Story

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November 11, 2009

Gurgle-Fizzy-Magic

family

I am giving my family “Experience” for Christmas.

Actually, I am giving them a Book-Club-in-a-Box.

Actually, I am giving them a calender featuring glorious photo’s taken by THIS soon-to-be- momma.

Besides just being a pictorial buffet of our family, the calender will also remind everyone of birth dates , anniversaries, and all the books we are reading as a family AND the days we will be discussing them. Together we have picked one spiritual, historical, educational, miscalaneous book that we will read, take notes, ponder, and then discuss as a family. Each family gets a chance to lead one of the discussions. (It’s called a colloquium, but since my mouth has little tongue quakes when I try to say it, I have re-dubbed it a “co-licki-wiki”. Just thought you would want to know that. )

I am already excited about this. And, I think everyone else is, seeing as how many of them have already started reading.

Now, before you wonder why I am blatantly posting this online, let me assure you that this gift is not a surprise. It began earlier in the year when we decided that gifts to each other would be FOREVER MORE homemade.

Why?

Because of Tony the Pony, the pound puppies, a baby bed, matching pajamas, and magic.

This is not the post where I will tell you that when my parents were young, broke, and responsible for three kids they handmade us a rocking horse, stuffed animals, doll beds, and pajamas. But, that is what they did.

This is a post about Christmas magic.

Last year was the first year since childhood that I felt a gurgle of Christmas magic fizz into my Christmas heart. I believe, that it was a Christmas gift–Homemade, from the One who manufactures miracles.

I had decorated our tree. It was small, so I put it on an end table to give it a grander feeling. I wrapped it lights. I hung 26 years of “an ornament a year” from spindly little branches. Then I filled in the obvious (because it was fake) vacant spots where branches could not be bent, with tiny golden orbs.

Belle sat on the floor chewing on a stuffed reindeer.

I put on some Christmas music, and the gurgling started. It shot through my nerves and with a swoop I picked up Belle. The fizz tingled my fingers and toes but a small leap and a spin made them feel better. Belle clapped and smiled, the Christmas lights from our tiny tree shimmering in her eyes. I paused to regroup, but the music nudged me into a waltz. Belle swayed in my arms. I could feel the joy all around me, in song and in simpleness, the enthusiastic call egging me to keep up. I tried.

“Come they told me…”

I chased after the melody, baby in my arms, melting to the magic of a story fossilized in spiritual anthems.

“Away in a….”

“Hark!”

“Joy!”

When the music dimmed and bowed we knelt at the tree. Our wild, heart-drenched romp left us reverant and thoughtful. Belle, who had assisted the dance with waving of arms, sharing of smiles, and kicking of feet, sat quietly in my lap as we stared at the tree.
mygirl2

The magic.

I had never wrapped my head around Christmas.

Not really.

I knew the story, of course. Its a good story.

It took being a mother to realize that it is a baby story.

We celebrate our Savior. Yes.

We celebrate that He was born.

That a mother loved him, and held him, and rocked him, and kissed him.

–And that even she, the mother whose Son would grow, would be perfect, would perform miracles, would be persecuted, would atone, and would save the world, reverently reflected in the glow of motherhood “taking these things and pondering them in her heart.”

Somehow all the dizzy whirling led me there.

I knew then that the heavenly angels didn’t just rejoice at his birth.

They danced.

-with joy

-with reverence

-with excitement

-in humility.

I knew that all the details of Christmas–even the good details, of giving and receiving, had kept me from listening, from feeling the magic, wonder, and joy of a miracle that came even as a child.

I knew my baby would grow too big for my arms, and that one day she would not remember that the best part of Christmas was dancing in the glow of a little tree with her momma, pretending to be angels excited at the birth of the Savior.

Someday, like all children, she would be introduced to the chaos train of Christmas that blinks and honks in a merry yuletide way–yet so loudly that wanting is felt over joy, reverence, excitement, humility.

I knew that I would be like other parents, who vow to “keep it simple” to only give “three gifts…..and stockings…and clothes…and books…and treats…then a few from Santa…and Grandparents…and neighbors…and….”

And, it would be a fun morning of gift opening.

Still, I want there to always be magic.

And dancing.

And excitement, reverence, joy, and humility.

So forever more, I am going to try to be more careful in creating experiences rather than just giving gifts.

In keeping the real magic.

-Like a gift to my family that encourages us to study, ponder, remember, and come closer.

-Like reading Christmas books that would make Grandma cry every evening of December.

Like going for moon-lite Christmas Eve walks where we sing back at the stars and the moon.

Like re-enacting the nativity story where I would always get to play the part of a

Joyful

Excited

Reverent

Grateful

Angel–who dances.

Actually, I think there might be disputes on who gets to play that part.

We may need some understudies to fulfill all the roles.

*Family Photo taken by Bodwa Productions

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October 28, 2009

First baby advice

My sister is going to have a baby soon.

I think it about it a lot.

We don’t live close to each other, and time zones/ busy schedules keep phone conversations short, so I am not able to impart to her EVERYTHING I KNOW about babies.

See beautiful pics of my sister here

First, everything I know isn’t much. Second, she likes second opinions. Thirdly, my opinion rarely follows science and statistics.

However, I go for a lot of long walks, in which I think, and reflect, and draw up conclusions and wisdom from my own life. I have been mentally organizing some of the above wisdom to share with her so that she will think that I am really smart.

For instance, the other day when I was changing the sheets on Belle’s crib mattress I suddenly found it imperative that I remember to tell Brooke about crib sheets.

Brooke, crib sheets are a pain. They may as well be added to the list of things/events that might make you swear. (Right up there with A. riding a crazy horse and B. Weighing yourself while you eat a burrito). The important thing to remember is to take off the crib bumper and everything will be ok.

Phew. See that was one of those things I just need to tell her.

What is the most important thing that I tell this mom to be?

Hide chocolate in the house for little pick-me-ups when you are feeling tired?

Don’t watch infomercials late at night when you are nursing? (Unless you really wanted those knives, the snugglie, and the hair straightener?)

Paint your toes before your due date?

Don’t potty train your two-year old with one of those fancy padded seats unless you want to have a super-sized-toilet-lid key chain to carry with you everywhere including airplanes and restaurants?

What advice would you give a first time mother? What are your tricks that worked?What weird unique advice was given to you?

Come people. Let us share with my dear sister Brooke.

P.S. As she has not EVER changed a diaper EVER before because she wants the FIRST diaper to be that of her own child…I am not saying that she is ill prepared (love you Brooke) just saying little tips might be useful…and other than the sheets thing…I can’t think of anything useful.

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