The English Geek

Anatomy of an 11:30 a.m. Run

Because of leaking water heater and slightly-soggy basement, put on favorite purple running tank, shorts, sunscreen, (new!) running shoes, watch, headband, and MP3 player 2 1/2 hours later than you intended.

Walk to the stop sign. Stretch quads, hamstrings, ITB, calves, and shins. Reset watch, get audio book to the spot you left off last time, press START on watch, and then start running.

Fifty yards into run, wonder at the twinge in your left knee. Ask yourself, as you always do at the start of a run, why your heart is beating so hard and if your lungs will ever stop hurting. Resist the urge to look at your watch because of course, you've only been running for, what, a minute or so by now. Shake your arms a little, concentrate on pushing back at the end of your stride to keep your ITB happy. Appreciate the intermittent puddles of shade.

Four minutes into your run, realize you've gotten past that initial painful push. Settle into run. Notice that while it's hot, it's a beautiful day, the shade deep and cool. Send gratitude out into the universe for whatever wise people planted trees along the entire length of this street.

Run past the junior high and think about Jake's track season. Write, in your head, the journaling for a scrapbook layout about what it means to "win" in running/track & field events. Get lucky and hit the 800 North intersection just as the light turns green. Sprint across.

Continue writing in your head, about running and scrapbooking and adoption and the force of anger and whatever other topic comes into your head, while listening to audio book (The Postmistress). Stop to walk for a second, at almost two miles, because said audio book has come to the end of the chapter but MP3 player hasn't, for some unknown reason, gone to the next chapter. Fiddle with it for a second, then just scroll up to music. Smile when the random first song is "Desire" by Gene Loves Jezebel. Run through a hazy fug of memory until you reach State Street just as the light turns red. Regret not waiting until intersection to fix audio issues. Jog in place and try not to feel silly.

Forty seconds later, cross State on green light. Mentally count up blocks you've run so far and on what side of the road, because running all blocks on the same side means a tormented ITB.

Run past road that would take you to a park with a drinking fountain. Regret not mapping your run in that direction as yes: it's hot and water would be nice. Remember that there's a drinking fountain by the cemetery and continue running with a little spring in your stride just thinking about that water.

Count blocks left and realize you're halfway done. Ignore the "Detour: road closed" signs because it doesn't say the sidewalk is closed, does it? And you really want to run down the other side of the hill you've just climbed up and besides, the cemetery (with its fountain) is just around the corner.

Turn the corner and start racing down the hill toward both the cemetery and the construction. Get closer and realize the construction is blocking the entire road and the access to the water. Sigh as deeply as you can when your lungs are huffing and puffing.

Cut through the old WordPerfect complex to get around the construction. Run past a dozen or so of your old selves, the ones that used to work there: 17 and dating that boy who was bad for you, 18 and terrified about what life had around the corner, 19 and dating the boy you'd marry, 20 and married. And all those other memories of friends you've lost touch with.

Leave the office buildings behind you and ponder, for the next mile, the life choices you've made that've brought you to the person you are right now.

Run past another cemetery and wish it, too, had a drinking fountain. Realize it's 12-something and hot and you're getting tired and thirsty but the only cure for that is finishing the last 2 1/2 miles you've got left.

Bless whatever poorly-thinking city employee decided to run the sprinklers at noon along this particular stretch of sidewalk. Apparently that person thought that the sidewalks needed to be watered, too. Ignore your usual mental diatribe about idiots wasting water in the middle of the desert and just appreciate the fact that you're running through sprinklers for four lovely, cool blocks.

Reach the 800 North/State Street intersection. Jog in place awkwardly near the other person on the corner, who is homeless and holding up a sign asking for help in finding work. Wait for 22 seconds for the light to turn green. Cross.

Now wait again for the other light to change, this time for 51 seconds. Cross street feeling confident, but keep your eye on that black BMW speeding up the road in the right turning lane. Run, but watch him carefully. Think his stopping actions means he's actually going to stop. Realize, nearly too late, that he is NOT going to stop. Hit the corner of his stupid BMW with your hand and glare at him while he skids, brakes locked, past you. Glare a little bit but manage not to flip him off; read the startled terror in his face that translates into "holy shiz I just almost hit that lady because I wasn't being careful enough." Then usher him past you and start running again, heart pounding a little bit harder.

Now, push yourself. You've got ten blocks left, just ten. Try to push it the whole way home. Ignore the blisters that insist on forming and the little voice insisting that the blisters are proof that it's time to get the bunions fixed because you know that even though you really should pay a visit to the podiatrist you're not going to until November when the running season ends. Have an imaginary conversation with your podiatrist. Try to not get annoyed at the groupings of mothers walking slowly with strollers (in wide groups that take up the entire width of the sidewalk and make you swerve out into the street) towards the elementary school, no doubt to pick up their kindergartners.

Remember how it felt to have a kindergartener you could pick up.

Listen to your breath.

Talk to your legs: come on, you can do this, I know you're tired but you're almost finished.

Turn the last corner: just two more blocks. Dodge another group of mothers.

Run. Run as hard and as fast as you can. Ignore the whining tiredness that asks you, over and over, to stop. Just run because it's only two blocks, then one. Keep going till you reach the corner, the rock which is always your stopping spot.

Stop running. Stop the timer on your watch and subtract the 1 minute 53 seconds you spent waiting for lights from your time. Try to figure out your pace but know your mental math skills aren't strong enough. Pant, breath hard, make those wheezy sounds at the back of your throat.

Look up into the blue, hot sky and send up gratitudes for strong legs and durable lungs and a reliable heart.

Then walk home and take a shower because seriously: you're sweaty.

Desert Dessert

Yesterday before church I made a coconut cake. I haven’t made this cake for a long time—five or six years. But as my thoughts are full of summer (I am trying to plan some fun but close-to-home adventures for the warm months) I made it as a way of embracing summer.

Which is probably a strange thing to say about a cake. But this one? This one is July in a bundt pan. "What does it taste like?" Kaleb asked me while he watched me chopping the pecans. "It tastes like summer," I told him. He was already looking at me with doubt, as anything with nuts in it is highly questionable to him, but that answer sent him, shaking his head, right out of the kitchen.

But it does—taste like summer. For nearly all of my growing-up years, from the time I was six and deemed old enough to go until the summer I was 19 and dating Kendell, we went to Lake Powell with a group of my parents’ friends. Getting up early to water ski on the glass-smooth water, meandering through the serpentine canyons in our battered yellow boat, eating lunch in the overhanging bowl of a sandstone cliff. Cliff jumping, or exploring sandy hillsides, or making the trek to Rainbow Bridge (in the years when you could walk a trail right up to it or could swim underneath it): didn’t matter what we did, it was just being there, in that place, a wellspring in the desert.

It is one of my most favorite places on the earth.

Food played an enormous part of these trips. Everyone took a turn preparing dinner for the entire group, and as each of the mothers had a slightly-competitive streak, the meals tended to run towards the gourmet. Which means we had plenty of delicious meals eaten from paper plates with a sandy beach as a table.

But nothing tasted as good as the coconut cake. It’s a dense cake, richly textured, with flavor that rolls across your tongue in waves. But kept tightly covered and slightly warm in the desert heat, it grew more moist and tender as the days passed, the flavor more concentrated and intoxicating.

Until it was gone.

Now when I eat it I get a little bit lonesome. I wish the cake had just the slightest grit of sand (that fine red sandstone sand of the southwest). I take a bite and I am there, eating dessert in the desert with my toes in water that seems to barely hold on to even being water, it’s so close to evaporating. My summer friends around me, my sisters teasing, my dad striding around the sandstone in cowboy boots and his swimming trunks. There—but only almost. And I know I could go back. Jake, in fact, is going there this summer with his scout troop. But I can’t really go back. The boat was sold a decade ago. My friends are grown. My dad is gone. (Lake Powell wouldn’t be Lake Powell without him.) Only the cake would be the same. So I eat a slice, and I remember, and it doesn’t have any sandy grit but I do swallow its buttery richness around a salty lump in my throat.

Coconut Cake
4 eggs
2 cups sugar
1 cup oil
2 1/2 tsp coconut flavoring
½ tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
3 cups flour
1 cup buttermilk
1 cup coconut
1 cup finely chopped pecans
1 batch sugar syrup

Chop the pecans. Heat oven to 325. Prepare a bundt pan by buttering it thoroughly and then coating it lightly with sugar. Beat eggs until thick and frothy, about 4 minutes; slowly add sugar and beat until it dissolves. Add oil and coconut flavoring. In a separate bowl, mix flour, salt, and baking powder. Add to the mixture, alternating with the buttermilk, starting and ending with the flour. Stir in the pecans and the coconut. Bake for 1 hour 10 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean.

About 10 minutes before the cake is done, make the sugar syrup:

Dissolve 1 cup sugar in ½ cup water. Add 2 tablespoons of butter and bring to a boil; boil gently for five minutes. Remove from heat, then add 2 teaspoons of coconut flavoring. Pour slowly over the hot cake when it comes out of the oven, allowing it to seep into cracks and down the sides of the cake. Leave in pan for 3-4 hours to allow the syrup to be absorbed.

April 2012 in Review

(I'm not sure why I just stopped writing monthly review posts. I totally skipped December-March. Ah, well. Onward and upward.)

April 2012 highlights: "Easter" dinner at my mom's house was a week before Easter this year; we had Wasabi Ranch chicken wings for Easter dinner at our house; our water heater was on its last leg; I took all the kids to Jump On It (one of those filled-with-trampoline warehouse places) and bought a Pass of All Passes for each of them (for stuff to do this summer); my credit card number got stolen and used for online gambling in some foreign country so I had to get a new one. In more specific, person-centered news:

~My mother-in-law moved into a condo about a half-mile away from us. Kendell spent a lot of time helping her get settled in, doing stuff like installing blinds and replacing smoke alarms and rewiring electricity. It is much nicer having her so close because if she needs help she is two minutes away instead of thirty. Plus she totally lucked into a great spot, with all-new everything inside.

~In addition to helping his mom, Kendell finished two more college courses, tech management and geology. Two classes closer to his degree! He also suffered through a month of high pollen count.

~Haley went to San Diego for her choir tour. She went to prom on the day she turned 17. She did lots of homework, finished reading Old Man and the Sea and started reading Hamlet, and got great scores on tests and essays. The choir she is in at school, Con Brio, got all 1's at their choir festival, which means they get to go on to the State choir festival.

~Jake went to track nearly every single day after school. He had two track meets, neither of which I could go to which made me sad. (Trying to save up vacation hours for a fun summer trip = I have to miss some other things right now.) Despite the fact that his school doesn't have a high jump coach, he finally made it over 5'2"! He had state testing at school. Got sick with the stomach flu and then, a week later, a fevery cold. He got a new pair of Vans.

~Nathan also had state core testing. His sixth-grade class put on the play Annie and he was the stage manager. He went on a camp out at the Dugway geode beds. He spent tons of time helping out at his grandma's new place. Along with Jake and Kaleb, he went to Take Your Kid to Work Day at Novell with Kendell. And, after much agonizing, he decided that yes, he will sing in his school's talent show this month, so he started practicing his song.

~Kaleb's teacher came back to school after taking February and March off to spend time with her newly adopted baby; all discipline problems promptly ceased. He got the stomach flu (but no fevery cold!). He spent every single possible second he could playing outside, which is his favorite thing to do. He went to a birthday party for his cousin Jace and started learning multiplication in math. (It's strange...he's still struggling with addition and subtraction but multiplication is coming so easily for him.) He played soccer so much that he wore out his ball.

~I got my hair colored. I went to dinner with my friend Chris. I turned forty and had a surprise party (the only one I've ever had, tee hee). I felt sick for almost the entire month, but I think I've finally figured out why. I read the books Feed, Bud, Not Buddy; I tried but failed to finish The Marriage Plot and The Flame Alphabet. (loved the former but ran out of time and couldn't renew because of the hold list; renewed the latter 3 times but just ended up hating it.) I ran lots of hills, baked 4 cakes, made 5 scrapbook layouts, painted my toenails blue, and bought myself a white denim jacket.

self reflection

A few weeks ago, I found myself running down University Avenue. I've done this lots of times, but never on the east side of the street; never along the almost entire block-long length of tall, glimmering store windows. But there I was, and I looked over and saw my reflection. The reflection of myself running.

And I immediately wanted to stop running.

Because, while I know I'm not one of those stick-thin runner girls and I don't see myself that way, I did envision myself with a different gait. I thought that my slower-than-most pace would at least afford me a graceful stride. In my head, while I am running, I look lithe and strong.

In reality I run like I'm afraid of peeing my pants.

And I couldn't decide: should I immediately turn away from my reflection in horror? Or should I run up and down that small-city block in Provo, watching my reflection until my gait changed to match the one in my head? Or should I just stop running altogether and take up knitting for exercise?

This morning I had another unusual perspective of myself. I was doing the plank in the sculpting class I go to at the city rec center. Usually when I do the plank, my head is pointing toward the mirror, so that when I look down I see the long expanse of the mat, and then my shoes, and then the quivering arms of the woman behind me.

But today (we had an intervals class so my regular approach was thrown out the window as I tried to just survive the entire hour without weeping) I found myself doing the plank with my toes pointing toward the mirror. When I started doing the plank thing where you tap one foot to the side, bring it back to the middle, and then repeat with the other foot, I looked down. I saw the long expanse of the mat, my shoes, and then a lovely reflection of my underbum (not sure how else to describe it...the curve where bum meets thigh) and my quivering hamstrings.

Holy shiz.

I found myself mentally apologizing to Kendell. "Sorry, honey," I thought, struggling through that minute-long toe-tapping plank. "Sorry for saddling you with those fat thighs for the rest of your life. An eternity of chubbiness is yours."

Gah. I had no idea. Here I am, having lived 40 entire years of my life. Roughly 14,600 days (not counting leap years) and for none of them did I know how atrocious the back of my thighs is. It's chubby. And jiggly.

Once again, the image in my head matches up not even in the least with reality. And I confess: it's fairly discouraging. I'm trying to make myself feel better by reminding myself about the positive mental impact that exercise has, and how I'd be a mental case without running. Even if I do run like a girl who's trying to keep her D-cups from bouncing. (I don't have D-cups.)

But I'd be lying if I didn't tell you that I wish all of that (awkwardly-strode) running had done just a little bit more for my back side.

And that's not even starting on the back fat I glimpsed today.

It's enough to make a woman wish for an unlimited plastic surgery budget.

Or a stronger self-esteem.

Or just some skinnier thighs.

Currently, the End-of-April Edition

• Helping Haley read Hamlet. It's not her favorite. (She read Macbeth last year and loved it. Coincidentally Nathan's class also presented Macbeth, so they sort-of read it together.) I got her a copy from the Simply Shakespeare editions, which has a contemporary translation on one page, Shakespeare's words on the other. Much more manageable for a high school student. (I'm not sold on the idea of high school students reading Shakespeare anyway. I think you need more life experience and education before you can actually enjoy The Bard.)
• Trying to incorporate MUFAs into all of my meals. I'm tired of my belly!
• Gardening a lot. I've not really done much until last week but suddenly I can't get enough of digging in the dirt. Up this week is a trip to the nursery for some new flowers.
• Loving the two purple irises blooming in my front yard.
• Disbelieving that there's only a month of school left.
• Resolving to finish Kaleb's dino quilt before his birthday.
• Also working on a hip to be square quilt to donate to a library fundraiser.
• Scrapbooking Easter and birthday photos.
• Working on a short story based on an image left over from a dream. Hoping I can just finish it, whether or not it's any good!
• Hoping that Jake's last track meet this week—Alpine Days, which is like the state championships for junior high track—goes well and he clears 5'2" in high jump.
• Reading and thoroughly enjoying the novel Once Upon a River and the essay collection Why I Write.
• Savoring this online collection of thoughts about short lines of poetry: life/lines. It is reacquainting me with poetry in a way I didn't realize I needed.
• Trying to decide what book to take on my upcoming trip to Mexico. 11/23/63 by Steven King? Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follet? The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafron? Or some other book I haven't thought of yet? (If you have suggestions, toss them my way! I want something long and involved but not too hard.)
• Grappling with Nathan's newly-sprouted teenage attitude. It's not my favorite thing. Jake and Haley both went through a similar phase at his age...which doesn't make it easier or more enjoyable.
• Thinking that I need to take Kaleb in to have the dermatologist check the mole he has on his groin. Not sure how he will handle the exam however.
• Keeping my friend Jamie and her daughter in my thoughts and prayers.
• Needing (still!) new running shoes but thinking tomorrow will be the day. Tomorrow,or maybe Wednesday. I don't love shopping for running shoes because they're expensive and because I always feel a little bit silly. This time, however, I am determined to not leave the store without a shoe I actually love. I have HATED my last pair.
• Wishing that my mom would sell her house and move closer to me and my sisters; glad that my mother-in-law finally managed to do just that and is now settled in to her new condo.
• Trying to plan some fun summer traditions to implement this year. Last summer was pretty lame in the fun department.
• Wondering how to get started with college applications and scholarships for Haley; also desperately hoping she'll find a summer job.
• Laughing at something Kaleb just said: "Mom, I see that I have photo albums, and Haley and Jake and Nathan do, but I want to see dad's picture book." Yes. Dad can have a picture book when he actually lets me take his picture. Almost every photo I have of kendell looks like this:

When he stops doing that I will make him a scrapbook!

What's up currently in your world?

 

How I Came to Find Myself Literally Weeping into My Oatmeal

I'm not going to lie: this weird stomach virus/bacteria/whatever-the-hell-this-mild-plague-is continues to make me grumpy. For the past two weeks and one day, I've woken up and felt like hell. Like, right on the verge of coming down with the stomach flu, except it never actually comes down. Or, er, comes up, which is good. Except for I feel like hurling almost all day long. I feel like eating only white-bread toast and drinking only anything bubbly and extra-icy-cold. I feel like sleeping a lot.

I feel like I am pregnant.

I AM NOT PREGNANT!I promise. I have taken three different tests just to make sure. I'm not late. I don't even get nauseous when I'm pregnant, I just get really, really hungry and my hands get these strange red spots. And I'm the opposite of really, really hungry. And no red spots. Besides, hello. I am forty years old. I know what causes babies and I take every measure to prevent them. I'm too old and the there's the fact  that I have recently made peace with the lack of babies in my life.

Plus, really. I'm not pregnant.

I'm trying to be friendly to the nausea, even though I do keep threatening to call the doctor tomorrow if it doesn't go away. Or I'm just ignoring it and doing all my normal life stuff, like going to work and going running and cooking dinner and doing laundry. Sometimes I baby the nausea by giving it exactly what it wants. Four-cheese Italian Cheezits? Sure. Strawberry Fig Newtons? OK. Watermelon? Lucky I have some of that in the fridge! On Thursday morning I made nice to it by making it some hot oatmeal like it was demanding. Oatmeal, delicately spiced with cinammon, ginger, a dash of nutmeg and a swirl of honey, with preferably a glug of cream on top (not possible, as the cream had soured).

While I waited for the water to boil, I looked out my kitchen window. My neighbors, who are an eldery couple, walked out of their garage and got into their mini van. They were dressed up and, I imagine, going to the temple, and obviously they were driving their van because they were going to pick up some of their friends and take them along. Afterwards, they and their friends would go to lunch somewhere fun but not too expensive and then they'd all go to their respective homes and take a nap.

The water wasn't boiling yet so I watched them. They sat in their van until the water boiled and I turned away to pour the oats in, and then I stirred and I watched them. I watched them for ten minutes (because I am decidedly not a quick-cook-oats kinda girl) while I stirred, and I wondered what they were talking about. What they were doing there, just sitting in their van.

I tried. I tried so hard to imagine them having a happy conversation. I wanted them to be saying kind things to each other, because they really are kind and sweet people. I wanted him to be complimenting her on her dress and her to be laughing and saying that he still looks handsome to her after all these years. But I couldn't imagine that. I could only imagine them having one of the arguments Kendell and I have, like why is the van so cluttered and can't I ever vacuum it, or please can you drive without yelling at all the other drivers this time, or yes, I know, I made us late again, or any of the other bajillion things that married people tiff over.

Watching my neighbors and imagining them having my marriage's arguments made me think about my grandparents. They've been gone for half my life but I still miss them. They both made me feel this amazing combination of unconditional love and unfettered admiration but in a manner that gave me confidence, not arrogance. I was simply happy and peaceful in their presence.

But I also was always aware of an underlying tension. I don't know any stories to tell that would give my hunch any weight. I don't want to ask my mom because I don't want to know the details, but I wonder: were they happy? Or did they, too, sit in their car (the big brown Oldsmobile my grandpa loved) and argue?

My other grandparents—my dad's parents—definitely were not  happily married. They were actively involved in not being happily married. My dad didn't talk about this much, but there were enough small stories to piece together a larger narrative. In fact, there are suggestions, in the family stories, that my grandpa Curtis, who died when my dad was just 16, went not just from a heart attack but out of sheer, unfettered unhappiness.

I stirred my oatmeal. I thought backwards to my grandparents and forward to my own children's future. Have I bequeathed them a legacy of unhappy marriages? Have I taught them? Have they seen, despite the arguments, me loving their father? Have I taught them that love, which has to include arguments, also includes laughter and happiness and comfort? Do they know love exists?

I'm not sure anyone taught me. My parents loved each other, but I don't think anyone would say they had a happy marriage. I remember, during a rough patch that happened when I was about 14, lying in bed and listening to them argue and promising myself that my kids would never hear me argue with their father.

A promise I broke about a month into my sojourn as a mother.

And I realized, right there in the kitchen on that random Thursday April morning: I don't know. I don't know if I have taught them what love looks like. I know it was my responsibility to do so. I know whether the arguments were my fault or someone else's, whether I was right or wrong: none of that changes my responsibilities. I know I want them to know it exists so that they have faith enough to find it. I'm just not certain I've taught them that.

All of those thoughts while I stirred my delicately spiced, boiling oatmeal and watched my neighbors sit in their van and wept. Out of shame and disappointment in myself and missing my grandparents and wishing my parents had been happier and trying to grit my teeth against the nausea. I finally realized what they were doing: they were laughing, their heads flung back, their faces split by grins and I wanted that to make me hopeful. To give me an idea that with time, with enough eventual growing up, we can reach a place where the arguments stop and the recriminations cease and we are simply, finally, enough for each other. That it just takes growing up and trying and coming to an understanding of each other that is deeper than anything you might argue over.

But it didn't. It made me weep even harder because I don't know. My parents never got there. Did my grandparents? Will I? Worse: will my children? I want them to. I want them to get there more than I want it for myself. But I don't know if—no, I don't believe I have—been the kind of example that could teach that that is a possibility. The fact that for ten long minutes I couldn't imagine my neighbors were simply laughing with each other seems to me to be proof enough.

What is maddening about this failure is that, despite the arguments, I do love my husband. Their father. I do. I just, I just don't know if I have shown them that. I don't know if they know. And I don't know if it is too late for me to show them that. So I cried, there in my kitchen. And I promised myself I would try harder and be kinder. Let them see me laughing with him and let them know  we were laughing. Not make them guess, or wonder, or fail to imagine.

Not leave them to pick up that unnamed current of tension and work it into their own marriages.

about Project Life (but only sort-of-kind-of)

During January and February of this year, I made 41 scrapbook layouts.

Partly I did so many because of different assignments I had. I did my Teen Week at Write. Click. Scrapbook. I also wrote this eZine article for Ella Publishing about two-page layouts. I did my usual Write Saturdays, too.

Another reason for that high page count was that I wanted to get Christmas 2011 scrapped, and I did.

But despite all that scrapbooking I got done, I felt a little bit out of touch with the scrapbooking world in general, and this is because of a thing called Project Life. This is a process developed by Becky Higgins wherein you create a sort-of scrapbook layout for each week of the year. I say "sort-of" because instead of putting everything down on a layout, your photos and memorabilia and journaling pieces slide into divided page protectors. This week, in fact,is dedicated to Project Life at WCS.

It's a great idea, really. It lets you get all of the elements of scrapbooking (photos, journaling, embellishments, ephemera) into their simplest forms so that you can get a lot of memories documented in not a lot of time.

But for some reason—a reason I can't yet clearly articulate, hence this post—I haven't jumped on the bandwagon. Of course, some part of it is my own quirk of not wanting to do something when everyone else is doing it. And it does seem like everyone else is doing Project Life. Go to nearly any scrapbooking blog and you'll find posts on it, and every new scrapbooking line has products for Project Life. It's everywhere, which means I am nowhere.

It's more than wanting to swim upstream, however. A large part of my resistence goes to the idea of the weekly layout. 41 layouts in two months notwithstanding, I don't have a set time for scrapbooking. I sort of squeeze it in when I can. What if I bought all the sheet protectors and the stuffand then I didn't make time to actually make the weekly layouts? And then there's also this fear: would I even have enough stuff to make a two-page spread for every. single. week? Would the fairly-regular blah-ness of my life be made completely visible by a Project-Life style album?

The funny thing about my resistance is that I really do need to figure out a way to make my scrapbooking affection less a part of my life. Which is an odd thing for a person who really, really loves scrapbooking to say. But it stops me from doing other things—namely writing—because it is an easy and pleasant way to be creative. "Scrapbook" has been the answer to the "what will I do with this free time?" question for the past 15 years. It's my way to de-stress and feel creative and feel like I'm doing something that matters. I don't encounter Resistance when I sit down to make a scrapbook page; it's just fun and it makes me happy. Writing also makes me happy, but it is much harder and I fight the Resistance with everything I have and then I toss it because it's not very good and then I start daydreaming about new green alphabet stickers.

I want to find my writing niche.

But scrapbooking feels important too. I like knowing that stuff is recorded. Stories matched up with photos. Experiences put down somewhere they're harder to lose. It makes me happy to look through scrapbooks with my kids, reliving moments. It could consume every single second I could pour into it and I would still never, ever be anywhere close to having told all the stories I want to tell. 

And that is one thing the Project Life approach promises: less time scrapbooking with more stuff actually scrapbooked. So why am I resisting it?

I still don't know. What I do know is this: during March and April of this year, I made a grand total of ten layouts. I did write more. Mostly, though, I just sat around and thought about things. About finding balance and being productive and living joyfully. About not squandering my time, and about what has value and meaning for me. About how I want my life to be and yes, about where scrapbooking fits in that. Maybe all of this pondering also seems like a waste of time, but I don't think so. My gut tells me I am in the middle of a necessary project, even if it doesn't look like much is happening. The change is happening inside me first. And I can't really commit to anything until it works its way to the surface.

Just curious: if you  are a scrapbooker, how do you feel about Project Life?

and if you are not  a scrapbooker, tell me how you manage your photos and stories?

17 is an Odd Number

Today, my daughter turned 17.

Of course, just yesterday she was sixteen. But sixteen, while notable for driving and dating, still felt manageable, somehow. Still felt like enough time was left.

But 17? 17 feels so urgent it can't be typed with letters, only numbers.

17 feels like a butterfly unfolding her wings.

17 feels like flight is imminent.

17 feels like a contradiction: a loss and a gain all at once.

It feels like the hush of the breeze before a door closes.

It feels like although another door will open, I wasn't quite ready for the one on childhood to shut.

So today as I helped her get ready for her prom—and how magical is that, to go to prom on your 17th birthday in just the dress you've always wanted—as I sewed straps and added lace and adjusted measurements, gave make up advice and touched up a few last curls, I was swept up in the contradiction.

Here she was, her beautiful and competent self right in front of me, talking and laughing and curling and painting. Yet sometimes when I turned too fast I could almost see her just behind me. Her six-point-five-year-old self (who knew enough math to calculate that she was already halfway to thirteen) was adoring her prom gown, adoring and pointing out all of the perfect details. And then asking to spin in it. Her nine-year-old self was touching, with careful but ink-stained fingers, her thick, long, curly auburn hair, commenting on its beauty. Even her thirteen-year-old self paid a visit, admiring the grace and the confidence of her walk in such high heels.

Those selves fluttered around us even though she didn't see. They are only in my heart now, as only a mother can know how she saw her own child. This girl whom I held when she was 17 seconds old, then 17 minutes and hours and days and weeks and months and now years. Who will she be? I wondered, watching her change, who will she become? and then I went back to her in that moment and gave her what I could.

I never knew just how immense my capacity for failure would be.

I also could not imagine the ways in which I would succeed.

And I didn't know, when they first put her in my arms, what it would all mean. They hand you your baby like they're handing you your baby, the small being you chose to make. Who they are really handing you is a person, a person for whom all your choices are made in order to help her make her own choices.

What else do you do? You teach them everything, from that first thing—this is human touch and voice and breath—to whatever is last—tonight it was a trick for the bra strap and a way to keep her eyeliner from smearing and a reminder to take some Kleenex in her tiny purse—with the goal of helping them find their own happinesses. With the desire that, when they stand on the precipice of their familiar cocoon, spreading and drying the impossibly beautiful wings they have formed, you have taught them enough.

When your daughter is 17, you want her to know that you look backward because for you, the entire metamorphosis matters, not just this one moment of it, and that the looking back helps you see the future as well and that her whole life matters to you. That who she is right now is formed of all those other versions of herself and that for you all the incantatory swooping of time coalesces in the here and now.

You want her to know that you know she can move forward and that she will be strong enough for life's tumults. You know that her heart will be broken and her will and her hope but that she will mend and find and renew. You hope that she will appreciate beauty and love the world and be loved by others in amazing ways. That one day she will be handed her own sweet bundle of life.

But more than anything, watching your daughter at 17 in the door frame, on the edge, pushing out, your heart fills up with this desperate hope: that when she flies it won't only be away.

on the last day of my thirties I:

• Awoke at 6:03 to the melodious sounds of Kaleb, the latest to succumb to the sort-of stomach flu that's been traveling through our family. It's not full-out puking, but just constant nausea. (When it hit me three days ago I seriously started considering taking a pregnancy test!) And, well, different types of visits to the bathroom. Wheeeeeeee!
• Got him taken care of and back in bed and then I slept for 71 more minutes.
• Hugged Haley and Kendell goodbye, after making Kendell his daily PB&H sandwich.
• Got Nathan up and going. Made sure Jake was up and went through the whole "please get ready" thing.
• Made Nathan's lunch.
• Took Jake to school.
• Took Nathan to school.
• Ran to Target for more ginger ale and white bread (anti-nausea remedies at our house)
• Made toast for Kaleb and cleaned up the kitchen while he ate.
• Logged on to Facebook so I could wish my friend Chris a happy birthday!
• Ran a few errands with Kaleb: took Jake his bag of supplies for his track meet (Vitamin Water, fruit leather, and cashews), filled up the van, stopped by the post office, dropped some overdue books off at the library
• Skyped with Kendell, texted with Haley, decided we'd meet for lunch.
• Went to lunch at Chili's. I had a grilled ham and cheese, tortilla soup, and french fries. I regret the fries and should have had the broccoli instead.
• Dropped Kendell and Kaleb off at home and went to Target with Haley (yes. Trip #2 to Target.) No luck.
• Went to Burlington with Haley. I HATE that store and remembered, today, that I still hate it. But, we found a pair of earrings for Prom.
• Came home and, I confess: I took a nap for 38 minutes.
• Started working on laundry—I managed to get 3 loads done today. Am I the only person who can fill a mega-ultra-exceedingly-large washing machine with an entire load of black clothes?
• Cuddled with Kaleb and watched Real Steel with him.
• Went for a 5.5 mile run. Felt grateful that A---I didn't hurl as I didn't give myself enough time after that lunch at Chilis and B---spring flowers are blooming here and smell so sweet! and C---I only had to wait 1 minute and 45 seconds for lights to change and D---I finished in under 50 minutes even with a killer hill at the end.
• Sent Kendell off to school.
• Stretched and realized: I still feel icky. So I took a bath and drank lots of water. Couldn't stand the thought of my usual post-run protein shake.
• Made more toast and ginger ale for Kaleb.
• Took Haley and Nathan to the gym.
• Talked to Jake about his fabulous track meet: he finally cleared 5 feet on the high jump! And he had a good finishing kick on his 400 so he passed someone else right at the finish line. He was beaming. Such a great feeling for a parent!
• Stressed about Haley's prom dress, which I am attempting to modify a little bit. Talked to several people and they confirmed that my plan will work!
• Talked to my mom about the night she labored through to get me here. (She had horrible long deliveries, my poor mother. Like 36 hour marathons. Like, now she would have just had us all by c-section.) She told me that a nurse climbed up on the bed and pushed against her belly with her knee to get me out. I told her I was certain I felt horribly guilty even in utero. We also discussed Haley's birthday dinner and other things.
• Picked the kids up from the gym.
• Ate a pomegranate fruit leather. I didn't know that was what my unhappy belly wanted but I finally feel better.
• Made dinner for the Bigs (pasta for Jake & Haley, frosted mini wheats for Nathan). Kendell didn't want anything. Yes, don't judge me but my kids did eat a hasty dinner at 9:30.
• Blogged.
• Now I'm going to watch Grey's Anatomy. And go to sleep. And wake up to my forties. Which I hope will be fabulous!

Why I Run in Running Clothes

We Mormons have been accused of being a peculiar people. As I quite often feel more like a convert to my religion, as opposed to a person born into it, these oddities seem glaringly odd to me sometimes, too. (Like, honestly. Last week I found myself standing in front of the new Starbucks at our in-the-middle-of-a-remodel Target, sniffing deeply and snuffling longingly and thinking...really? Coffee? We can't drink coffee? And trust me: that's not the first time I've had that thought.) One of my LDS oddities that I've been thinking about lately is modesty.

We are encouraged to dress modestly. In general my take on me dressing modestly involves the length of my skirts and shorts, the cut of my shirts (including both the bust and the sleeve width), and the general, over all feel of my outfit. My interpretation of "modest" revolves mostly around the concept of elegance. I don't want to dress too young, or too skimpy or too...what's the opposite of elegant? I do, however, believe that I can dress modestly without wearing a sack. Maybe it is shallow of me—and honestly, I'm not afraid to leave my house in sweats and a t-shirt and a slumpy long sweater—but I do take pleasure from what I wear. My inner rebellious self somethings thinks really? sleeveless? No one can see our shoulders? but in general I stay firmly on The Plan. I like pretty, I like black, I like the style I've developed. Sweats included.

Except, I still wear running clothes when I go running. I don't wear those tiny running shorts that other girls can get away with. (Partly this is because my thighs rub together too fiercly to wear them, but it's mostly because I wouldn't feel comfortable with my butt nearly hanging out.) I don't hit the road without covering up my sports bra. But, I do wear singlets. I wear shorts that are shorter than my knees. I wear tank tops and running skirts.

And this bothers some people.

(I know it bothers some people because they have told me it bothers them. "You shouldn't run in that shirt" or "I think your running shorts are immodest" are actual real live words people have said to me.)

This topic has been on my mind since last week, when I was leaving my house for a run. It was a glorious afternoon—just warm enough for a running tank and one of my favorite running skirts. I left the house, ready to sweat and maybe get a little dusty and certainly come back red-faced as I am not one of those graceful runners who finish their workouts looking like they've just finished getting a facial, feeling pretty. Just as I turned the corner to leave my neighborhood, a neighbor turned his vehicle onto my street—and he gave me that look. The one I am completely familiar with. The one that means you are dressed immodestly.

And let me tell you: I argued with that neighbor (someone I consider to be a friend) in my head for all of my five (very hilly!) miles. I told him about my right to choose. I told him that my running outfit was just that, running clothes purchased from the workout-clothes section. I argued that running in pants and a T when it's scorching outside is absolutely miserable. I pointed out that swimmers exercise in swim suits (even the Mormon ones!) so it stands that runners can wear running clothes. He argued back (in my head) that there are running clothes and then there are running clothes. 

So then I got personal. I pointed out (in my head) that there are some things in my life that make me completely unhappy and stressed out in ways he has no concept of. And that I am prone to letting my little black raincloud sluice away my attempts at being happy or hopeful or optimistic. And that I am starting to have anxiety attacks on a regular basis. But running? Running helps me keep those things at bay. Running helps me keep the unhappinesses in perspective and the little black raincloud from turning into a hurricane and the anxiety from needing medication.

But I can also be honest: physical and mental health aren't the only reasons I like running. I like wearing cute running clothes. They make me happy. They make me excited to get out the door. Without cute running clothes I would be far less motivated to run. Call me selfish if you need to, or vain, or even just downright lame. That's OK. I know myself and my life and my reactions to it well enough: if I ran in Mormon-modest running clothes I wouldn't want to run as much. If I didn't run as much I would eventually find myself rocking on the floor in a dark closet somewhere, contemplating slitting my wrists.

"If you had enough faith to be obedient," my neighbor volleyed back (in my head), "it could overcome all of those things."

A point I cannot refute.

Despite this imaginary discussion with my neighbor (for whom I hold no hard feelings as this whole idea was discussed in my head), and my knowledge that it's my weakness that's the problem here, I'm not going to abandon my favorite running clothes. Because imaginary arguments aside, I need to keep myself sane and strong for my kids. And for myself. Plus there's the fact that I still get to chose, and my choice is that I am OK. My shorts aren't tiny. My belly isn't exposed. My tank tops have thick straps.

Perhaps my idea of modesty is different from the rest of my neighbors'. After all, I also buy and wear tankinis instead of one-piece swimsuits. When Haley was little I let her wear sundresses without a shirt underneath. I am also pretty firm in telling my sons that they are responsible for the contents of their thoughts, not the girl in skinny jeans. (Because saying "girls should dress modest so that boys can control their thoughts" seems like an inch away from saying "it's your fault I raped you because you wore that short skirt.")  I talk to Haley, too, about modesty. We don't always agree, quite frankly. Sometimes my ideas feel too prescriptive too her. I just keep trying but deep down I know: the style of clothes she settles on in her adult world might be sort-of influenced by me, but in the end she gets to choose. Just like I get to choose.

Besides. What does "modest" mean, anyway? It's very first dictionary definition has nothing to do with clothes, but with decorum: "freedom from conceit or vanity." Modesty, in the end, shouldn't be about hem lengths or exposed shoulders. It should be about humility. I don't run in running clothes out of conceit—I don't love my running skirts because of what I think they might make someone else think about me. I run in them because they (ultimately) help me to be happy. Or happier than I would be otherwise. Self-importance and showing off have nothing to do with my running-clothes choices. Comfort, functionality, and cuteness do. (As well as pockets, but that's an entirely other rant.) Flaunting my knees and elbows might be immodest, but so is flaunting your apparent superior righteousness.

Other than that familiar look, I have no idea what my neighbor really thinks of my running attire. Most of me doesn't care. Most of me thinks about stones and glass houses and judging not. If you don't like what I'm wearing, I almost said to my in-my-head neighbor, then don't look at me. Instead I said don't judge me for sinning differently than you sin to his silent smugness (in my head). And that made his smugness slide away. In fact, he was at last, blessedly, gone. Out of my head  He left me to run in peace—even in my tank top and skirt.

(For more ideas about Mormons and modestly, check out these  posts written by people whom I've never met but whose opinions struck me as, well, interesting.)