Thursday, September 30, 2010

Wherein I wax philosophical

Here is what I am thinking about:

This weekend is General Conference. I love Conference weekend. It means lots of jammy-wearing relaxation, family breakfasts, and late-afternoon naps, to say nothing of spiritual enlightenment. It is refueling, both physically and spiritually.

Six months ago, I spent many of the sessions gazing at my small, not-yet-mobile daughter in wonder. Last year at this time, my belly was swollen and heavy with the weight of her. Half a year before that, I was throwing up my oatmeal while the tiny Floyd fetus inside me grew. I can measure my life in these even chunks--- April, October. April, October.

It was meant for me. I hear this often in the weeks following conference. It was just what I needed.

I have often figured that it was more the spirit of the meeting that speaks to the individual than the speaker. After all, with millions of listeners, surely the topic cannot be directed toward only one person. It is the truth of it that serves as a balm; the Spirit highlights, pulling and illuminating pieces specific to the listener.

Comforting, teaching, answering, guiding.

I know this is true.

And also:

Perhaps the content is just what we need, too. And the reason it can be just what I needed” for many of us simultaneously is because we are not as different as we think we are. Sure, the details, the circumstances, the particulars vary, but maybe the heart of it all is much more universal.

I hurt, I want, I need. Help me.

And that is why I intend to listen for both--what the Spirit teaches, and what the speaker teaches--because I am not that different.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Look, sire. The herd is on the move.

My sister MJ watches the Bug while I am at work.  We've put in place a special formality known as The Deal-- should Bug acheive any major milestones while I am away, MJ is to keep her mouth shut about it and then act surprised later when I excitedly tell her about it.  I'd like to say that she's never had to implement The Deal as I've been there for each 'first' so far, but now that I think about it, I guess I really don't know for sure...

Anyway, all was going along swimmingly until last Thursday night.  You see, last Thursday night, Schmoopsie and I headed to Capitol Theatre to see The Lion King with other qualifying members of his work sales team.  It was wonderful, fabulous, amazing, genius, insert-any-impressive-adjective-you-know-here good.  I'm not exaggerating here; it was that. good.  Really.  REALLY. 

And then at intermission, Schmoopise scurried off to the men's room, and came back with shocking news.

"Got a text from your mother," he said.  "Bug took 6 steps."

Clearly, Madre/Nana doesn't know The Deal.

"Are you kidding me?!" I asked.  "The one time we go on a date without her?"
"Are you kidding me?!" MJ thundered when she heard the news.  "The one time I'm not watching her?"

And now?  Bug won't repeat it.  Stubborn little thing.  Gets it from her Daddy.

Watch out.  Our ladyBug is on the move.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

It's what's on the inside that counts

Parenthood is when the amount of visible poo considered acceptable in your life migrates on the scale from Absolutely None to Trace.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

You don't have to answer right now.

It was 11:36 when I finally grabbed my cup of oatmeal out of the microwave in the breakroom.  What does this mean for lunch? 

Bug cried out several times last night, which is unusual for her.  The first time, a calming hand on her back and restarting her lullably music was all it took; I'm not even sure she was actually awake.  Several hours later, however, she was not as easily settled.  Bug, her wooby, and I rocked for a few minutes in the chair in her room until her breathing slowed again.  I can't imagine my baby being scared in her sleep.  Was she having bad dreams?

I think autumn would be my favorite season if it wasn't imminently followed by winter.  Can I learn to forget the coming snow to appreciate the changing leaves?

Be patient, I heard.  Be patient.  What sort of time frame does that imply?  Is it counter-productive to even ask?

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Doe, a deer. A female deer.

I sing along to the radio while I drive. I play the drums on the steering wheel, belt out the melody, and even imitate the guitar line with the universal “neer na neer” sound. (On the way to work the other day, I found myself singing along to Free Bird. It’s a shame my generation has forgotten the glory of a guitar solo longer than the entire rest of the song.) Once upon a time, I even wanted to be a music teacher. Now that I realize how bad Jr. High smells, I’m sort of glad my life didn’t end up heading that direction. The point is that I am a music lover.

Just like an entire female generation before me, I count Elvis as my first music obsession. When our VCR ate my VHS copy of performances by The King, my parents bought me another one. While the first tape had focused on the hip-gyrating, black-leather wearing Elvis of his youth, the second tape followed his journey to its sad, white, sequin-splattered, sweaty, obese finish. Turns out I learned about rock and roll AND the dangers of excessive narcotics/bacon at a young age.

After a brief and embarrassing Amy Grant phase, I happily sailed right past the boy band era (unlike some people I could name.) The first CD I ever bought was Zeppelin IV, and, just like an entire male generation before me, I locked myself in my bedroom for hours with Stairway to Heaven on repeat. I was a cool 13 year old.

I was raised by parents with solid musical taste. I am infused with Journey’s power ballads and Styx from my mother, and soulful blues by Eric Clapton and George Harrison from my father. My grandparents introduced me to Vivaldi and Beethoven. I performed original scores by Mussorgsky, Bach, Tchaikovsky, and Bernstein. My first roommate in college blasted Def Leppard and ACDC from her CD player high on dorm room shelves. I loved it all.

Today, I have a hard time listing my favorite musicians. Each is so tied to memory—the back roads of Cache Valley are forever linked with the Beatles, and early high school drones with Dave Matthews Band as a constant hum in the background. I’m afraid I’ll leave out a love: Norah Jones and Jack Johnson for my contemplative days, Keane when I’m feeling nostalgic. Currently, I’m in a Pink phase. (Almost bought the CD recently.  Noted the parental advisory.  Figured I'm supposed to be more mature than that these days.)

And here is what all of this was leading up to.  The narrowing was painful, so I did it by decade.

My Official (as of today, at least) List of Favorite Artists.

1970s- Aerosmith (even though I like the later stuff better… those decades were taken.)

1980s- Queen (perhaps the overall winner! Shhh- don’t tell the others.)

1990s- Red Hot Chili Peppers (there is a place in Sardine Canyon where I am helpless against the urge to sing Zephyr in my head.)

2000s- Coldplay (I miss you, Annie.)

Who did I miss? How do you compare?

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Big people and little people

Mama, upon seeing Bug in her brand-new, big girl sleeper:  "What happened to my tiny,soft, bald baby?"

Daddy, without hesitation:  "Bug ate her."

Friday, September 3, 2010


While I was pulling pictures for Tommy's homecoming post, I came across this snapshot, which deserves its own post altogether. 

Behold, the fruit of my womb:

Pretty sure it would be inhumane of me not to have more babies.  I mean, really.  The world needs them.

Welcome home, Elder! This is Bug.

What with the unexpected car-smashing, neck-whipping events of late, I have neglected to update my faithful blog readers on the most exciting bit of news.

This girl:

who has been waiting ever so patiently, finally got to meet

this guy:

I was all prepared to be emotional when introducing my brother to my daughter for the first time.  But then he didn't show up when he was supposed to.  Then we thought he was in Hong Kong.  Nope.  San Francisco?  Not there either.  I got tired of holding the aforementioned daughter on my hip.  She's big, and the airport floors are too grody to allow crawling.  The good people at the Delta counter finally found him in Los Angeles.  Of course!

After hours and hours of confusion and waiting, he finally arrived!  I was too tired to cry, so they met mostly without incident.  And now that he's been helping me with her for the last several days (I can't lift her without excruciating pain) they are best pals. 

Welcome home, Elder.  We are so happy to have you!