101 Posts and Feelin' Good

So I fully intended to do something special with my 100th blog post. I wasn't sure what that would be, but certainly something should mark such an important number, right? It's sort of like when the kids in early elementary school celebrate the 100th day of school by bringing 100 items. I remember going to the bank to get 100 pennies, so Seth could take them to school on his 100th day of second grade. I thought about the upcoming 100th post when I was on #90 and again at #96; however, when I actually wrote my 100th post, I didn't think about it at all. I didn't even notice! The 100th blog post came and went (sigh) without the slightest fanfare. Ah, well. It matters not.

What matters is today I write my 101st blog post, and I have to tell you that I am feeling good. I mean really good. Like almost "normal" good. As you know, Shulamith's wedding was hugely emotional for me. It was the strangest thing. I love my daughter more than life, and in the past year, I have come to love Mathew nearly as much. Seriously, this kid has really gotten under my skin. He and Shulamith are so perfect together; what a blessing they found each other. Nevertheless, this whole wedding thing tapped my emotions in ways I could have never imagined. Worried that I wouldn't be able to hold myself together long enough to get through the ceremony, let alone two receptions, I was calmly reassured by my friend Lindsey. She predicted that I would do okay through the sealing and even through the first reception for the most part because I would have no choice. But the trip home in the car, she thought, might very possibly be a repeat of our trip home nearly six years ago after dropping Shulamith off at college for the first time (See May 21, 2009 post entitled "Angst" for details).

As usual, Lindsey was pretty much right on. I did okay at the sealing, and even pretty well though the Utah reception, other than right after they took off together in the decorated car. But the ride back to Montana the following day was pretty tough. As was the Billings reception the following week. As were the next two months, truth be told. I simply could not stop crying. Like four or five times a day. Every day. I would hear a certain song on the radio and cry. I would look at a picture of Shulamith and me and cry. I would go to the mall and cry. I would eat a Cinnabon and cry. I would wear one of the many items of clothing she and I have in common and cry. I would do absolutely nothing and cry. Sheesh!

Once again, Lindsey to the rescue. She told me that eventually, this would stop. Eventually, everything would feel normal again. My anxiety would decrease, and life would be okay. Well, I am here to tell you that I think she was right. This morning as I was driving out to the C.O.T., it occurred to me that I'm no longer crying every day. I still cry sometimes because I'm an emotional person, but not every single day and certainly not several times each day. When did the change happen? I don't know. It must have been gradual? However it happened, I am grateful. I still miss her tons, just as I always did. I still hate the distance between us and can't wait until we can move down there. And I'm still profoundly thankful for modern technology which allows us such regular contact. I know we're not supposed to worship "items," so I won't, but I'm pretty darned appreciative of cell phones, text messaging, instant messaging, and email. Moreover, every time she tells me the latest kind and thoughtful thing her new husband has done for her, I am once again thankful for Matt.

So yeah, to any of you who were concerned for my mental health, you can relax. I really am doing better.

101 Blog Posts and Feelin' Good!

What's in a Name?

What's in a Name?

I am prompted to write this post as a result of a recent thread of discussion on the Facebook wall of one of Gerald's virtual "friends." Up until two days ago, she was not my friend; I had never even heard of her. However, Gerald commented on her status; I read it; I read what others had to say, including one sexist bigot (sorry, but he really is); and before long, my anger got the better of me. I added this woman as a "friend," because I had to comment myself.

The topic? Names. More specifically, the cultural tradition in this country for women to change their last names to their husbands' last names when they marry. As anyone who follows this blog regularly already knows, I chose not to follow that tradition. In fact, I never even considered it. As Gerald pointed out in this Facebook thread, "We have been married 20+ years, and we have never had the same last name. This has not hurt us or our children." And why should it?

This business of name changing is not a law, civil or spiritual. It's purely cultural. Back in the 1980s, Gerald and I both believed that fewer and fewer women would make this choice as time went on; we were wrong. I am positively baffled by it, but even today, the vast majority of women in this country still opt to change their last names upon marriage. And that is okay...IF (and it's a big "if") they are fully aware it is a choice, and they are fully aware of the consequences. I have spoken to many women, even those who married recently like in the past ten years, who tell me they really didn't know they had a choice. They thought it was something they had to do. It was expected of them.

And that is the problem. No woman should feel pressured to give up her own last name, the name she was given at birth, the name she has used all her life, just because she falls in love and gets married. Changing one's name is a choice; it is not a requirement or expectation of marriage. Those who opt not to change are not any less committed to their marriages, nor do they love their husbands any less than other wives. I know how silly those ideas sound, but trust me, I have heard both. We need to educate our daughters (and our sons too, for that matter) on this subject, so young women (and older ones as well) don't go blindly into a decision which can be difficult and expensive to revoke.

Here are some consequences of that decision:

1. If you change your name, in time, hardly anyone will remember your birth name; it will be as though it never existed.

2. Some people will forget even your first name and will address you and your husband as "Mr. and Mrs. John Doe" (or whatever his name happens to be). How utterly and oppressively sexist! But it will happen. I promise.

3. Just short of this, some people will refer to your family as "The John Doe Family," as though you aren't even there.

4. You will give up the option of passing on your last name to some of your children. One alternative is to at least give your birth name as a middle name to your children, but if you don't do that, none of your children will carry any part of your name.

5. Friends from the past could have difficulty finding you and reconnecting. In some cases, this could be a good thing, but in most cases, it's a giant hassle.

6. If your marriage should end in divorce (and I seriously hope it does not, but life is not always predictable), you then carry the name of a person to whom you are no longer married, unless you reclaim your birth name or remarry and change yet again. I have one friend who has had four different last names in her 40-year life. This cannot possibly be fun.

I'm sure there are some positive consequences of changing one's last name, but from my perspective, they can't begin to outweigh the negative.

What's in a name?

LOTS.

Be very certain before you decide to give yours away.

What Have You Done Today?

So Lindsey just changed her Facebook status to read, "Lindsey just helped save three lives by donating blood. What have you done today?" Indeed, she did! And good on her, I might add. The first (and only) time she had previously donated was ten years ago when she was in high school, and the experience wasn't good. She felt sick for an entire week. When I asked (urged, coerced, coaxed) her to go with me to our church-sponsored blood drive, she was understandably hesitant. Who wants to risk feeling sick for a week?? But she agreed.

So this time, I was determined she would not have any negative side effects. I know, right? Like I had any control over that. Still, I was wishing and praying hard. I, myself, am a seasoned blood donor. I started donating when I was 17, and other than during my five pregnancies and when I've been deferred because of foreign travel, I've always donated regularly. Gerald is also a serious blood donor, and we've effectively trained Luke and Shulamith to be the same. Now we just need to get Isaiah and Eli on track with this. Anyway, in all the times I've donated (surely, over 100), I've never had a side effect. I always feel exactly the same afterward as I did when I walked in. Getting started can be sketchy because I have tiny veins, hidden deeply under my skin, but I figure even phlebotomists need challenges. Once they find a good vein, all is well. The ones who are really good can sometimes get in with just one try. They follow my specific instructions including which arm to use, where to go in, and how to "dig deep...like you're going for oil!" I call these amazing people who get in on the first try "vein whisperers." Usually it takes some poking and prodding, which leaves my arm sore and bruised the following day, but ultimately, they do succeed.

So tonight, Lindsey picked me up at 6:10, and off we went to our 6:20 appointment. We went through the standard iron check, blood pressure check, body temperature check, and question/answer session before beginning the actual donation. I was seated in front and to the right of Lindsey, but I could see her in the mirror. I prayed fervently that (1) my phlebotomist would find my tiny vein quickly and painlessly, and (2) that Lindsey would not feel sick. Within ten minutes, we were both finished. I made my way back to get some water and cookies. Lindsey stayed down a while longer just to be cautious. When she did stand, she did so quickly and all in one motion. Bad idea. "Ah, I don't feel very well," she said. Back down she went, and they brought her a sugary drink, along with a cold pack for the back of her neck. It was already freezing in there; my body temperature was only 97.2 when they measured it. But she was a trooper and obediently placed the cold pack behind her neck. We stayed another 10-15 minutes before she tried to get up again, this time slowly, first sitting, then standing. Much better. Other than shivering from the cold pack, she was okay.

Blood donation is such a good idea. Many people cannot donate because of health issues or certain medications. But if you can, I hope you will. There are some other little perks, like it takes 600 calories to replace what they take, so they encourage you to make your next two meals hearty ones. No problem!

Lindsey and Terrianne helped save three lives each by donating blood. What have you done today?

2009 Blog Book Arrived!

A few weeks ago, my friend Patty mentioned that she decided to have her blog posts compiled into a book. What a wonderful idea! I have often thought that I should have a hard copy of this blog just in case something happened to it online. I mean how secure is cyberspace anyway? What if the Internet suddenly disappeared? Okay, not likely. But what if Google somehow lost all my posts? Anyway, I thought it would be good to have something physical, but the idea of printing the entire blog and compiling all the pages was way too daunting a task to even consider.

Fortunately, I didn't have to.

This company called blog2print did it for me. It was so easy. All I did was log on to the site and enter my blog address. I chose a color (red, of course) and pictures for both the front and back covers. They quoted me a price, I paid it, and this lovely book containing all seventy 2009 blog posts, complete with pictures and comments, arrived two weeks later. I am impressed. I believe I will do this every year.

Next came the anxiety. No wait, the fear. No wait, the TERROR! I have to read the blog in hard copy print. WHAT IF I FIND ERRORS? Ack! When I skim through my former posts electronically, I make changes all the time. I tweak a phrase here; I edit a clause there. I trim wordiness wherever I can. Always, always, writing can be improved. But not anymore, at least not with the hard copy edition of my blog. I can no longer edit. And that's hard for me. In the depth of my soul, I am an editor.

In the comfort of my bed, with pillows propped up all around and a Diet Coke on the nightstand, I took a deep breath, faced my fear, and read the book cover to cover. Believe it or not, I didn't find a single error. That doesn't mean no errors exist; it just means I didn't see any. Which is all that matters, right? -- because I'm the only one who cares. What I did find was a year of glorious experiences, memories, thoughts (both sad and happy), friends, family, vacations, holidays and more, woven together in a series of essays. Much of it I had forgotten. It was fun to read it all again.

I am thankful to have discovered blogging as a creative outlet. I'm even more thankful that I can finally follow the age-old counsel to record something of our family history. I've never been good at keeping a journal. Writing daily about events seems boring because my life, day to day, isn't all that interesting. I recently read a blog whose author called herself an essayist. I think that's what I am. Yes, I'm an essayist. I love to write, but I need a focus, a theme, a central idea in order to make it work. I'm happy to have found the ideal medium for that.

So to all of you who read and even sometimes comment here, thank you. I love to know that people are reading.

Now for the next hurdle. Gerald suggested taking a picture of me holding the blog book to post with this entry. Good idea? Yes! But that means I have to take a good picture. Blah. We've now taken 12 pictures, and I like NONE of them. I look either frightened, frumpy, fat, or 40+. Blech! Thank goodness Gerald is a patient photographer. We'll keep trying, and if you see a picture with this post, you'll know we finally succeeded in taking one I could live with.

Vanity. Is that one of the seven deadly sins? If so, I think I'm doomed.

Papers, Papers, Papers

With just six days class days remaining in the semester before final exam week, I once again find myself buried in papers. This happens every semester. I come to a point where I seriously don't believe I'm capable of getting it all done. It feels impossible, insurmountable, and hopeless. Everywhere I look is another stack of papers to be graded. Shulamith offered this encouragement today: "You will get all the papers graded. You always do. But it will probably suck a lot."

I'm afraid she's right. The next two weeks will, indeed, "probably suck a lot," but then, let's get real. This is simply the plight of the English teacher. Papers, papers, papers. I remember once a very long time ago I thought I'd try teaching high school. For so many reasons, I hated it. I have absolutely no clue how to discipline kids, so my classroom management was atrocious. I don't even discipline my own kids; how on earth would I know how to discipline other kids? It was a complete disaster. However, I have one fond memory. One day in the faculty lounge, I was lamenting the fact that I had a bunch of essays to grade, while the P.E. teacher was on his way outside to play kick ball with his class. "This is just not fair," I protested. His reply: "Hey, I knew what I was doing when I chose a field of study. You made your choice as well."

And that is the truth. I made my choice. To be perfectly honest, I can't think of another subject I would choose to teach. I love English. I love watching students' writing skills mature and develop over the course of the semester. I love watching their confidence level as they set out to write their final essays. Yes, I made my choice, and it wasn't P.E.

Or math.

Or communication.

Or science.

It was English. And that was a good choice. Very good. But oh the papers!

Papers, papers, papers.

Uncertainty. Blah!

I was thinking today, well actually in the middle of last night (sigh!) and then again today, about how different people, depending on their personalities, handle uncertainty. On the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI), a personality inventory, one of the four components includes this idea. People who score toward the "J" (Judging) end of the spectrum prefer definite plans. They like to know what is going to happen and when. Conversely, people who score toward the "P" (Perceiving) end don't need such definition in their lives; they prefer to keep their options open.

So any guesses where I might fall on this "J/P" spectrum?

Yep, I'm a "J." I'm a strong "J." No, wait, I'm a polarized "J." I HATE uncertainty. I love to plan! I like to know what to expect in any situation, and I don't like surprises. Uh huh, I'm a happy "J."

That is unless life becomes uncertain. Then I'm not so happy anymore. And that's how I feel about the upcoming summer. For me, summer begins May 1st. That is Commencement Day at my university and my last official day of the school year. In case you haven't checked your calendars lately, May 1st is just three weeks and three days from today. That's 24 days. So you would think a "J" like me would have some idea what the following four months would bring.

However, I'm basically clueless. Every time I try to figure it out, I can't. There are just too many variables. Uncertainty. Blah!

My niece is getting married July 10th in Portland. The one and only thing I know for certain about this summer is that I will be in Portland that day. But how will I get there? Whom, if anyone, will I take with me? How long will I stay? All questions with no definite answers. If I drive to Salt Lake City and fly from there, I'll pay literally half the price I would pay to fly out of Billings. I could take Gerald with me and pay the same price as if I flew alone. But that would leave Seth at home with just Isaiah and Eli. They love him, yes. They would never let anything bad happen to him, no. Still, they tend to sort of ignore him and leave him to fend for himself, and they'll both be working full time this summer which doesn't help. I could bring Seth with me instead of Gerald, but then Gerald might not make it over to the West Coast at all this summer. I could bring Seth AND Gerald, but then I pay for three airline tickets. We could drive over, but that takes such a long time, and I'm not sure it's cost effective after paying for hotel rooms and food. Questions, questions, questions, none with clear, obvious answers. Uncertainty. Blah!

Then there is the remainder of the summer. I would like to go somewhere in August, but at this point, I don't know where or even with whom.

Last night, when I was mulling over all this instead of sleeping, I thought about the "P" people I know and how much easier their lives must be. All this uncertainty would not bother them one bit. In fact, they'd likely enjoy it. They would probably sleep right through it! Isaiah, for example, is a definite "P." In the evenings, we often find ourselves both on Facebook at the same time. If I'm very lucky, he will be bored enough at his job that he'll decide to chat with his mom. In case you didn't know, Isaiah is a hall monitor in the dorms at Westminster. His only duty is to sit at a desk and "monitor" the hall. In other words, he doesn't have to do a single thing. On those evenings, our conversations always begin something like this:

Isaiah: Hey Mom!

Me: Hi Isaiah! How are you?

Isaiah: Okay, just bored at work.

Me: When do you get off?

Isaiah: In another hour.

Me: What will you do then?

Isaiah: I dunno.

Me: What are you doing this weekend?

Isaiah: I dunno.

Now let me point out that in my profession, this "I dunno" stuff is somewhat annoying. But do I say anything about it? No way. I wouldn't do anything that might discourage Isaiah from chatting with me. He's by far the quietest, most introverted of my five children; I'll take any communication I can get. Also, he is an excellent writer. I'm not sure I've met another kid his age who writes with such strength, precision, and skill. And I say that NOT as a mother, but as an English teacher. So though mildly annoying, his "I dunno" is not a huge concern.

My point here is that when he says, "I dunno," he truly does not know what is coming next in his life. He has told me that he doesn't make any plans. He goes to his classes, and he goes to work. Other than that, he just waits to see what comes up. And usually, something does. Often something fun! Isaiah is a "P."

I am a "J." I need predictability in my life, and before too long, I will need to get this summer mapped out so my anxiety doesn't spin right out of control. I believe I'll start now. May 1st, just after the final mortarboard is tossed into the sky, I'm going to Salt Lake City. By then, it will be over five weeks since I last saw Shulamith, and yada yada yada (you know that story). But will I fly there? Will I drive? How long will I stay?

I dunno.

Uncertainty. Blah!

A Hunting He Will Go

I believe this was our 23rd Easter hiding eggs. I can't be absolutely certain, but that is my best guess. Luke was born in December 1984. I'm pretty sure we didn't dye eggs for him on Easter 1985 when he was only a few months old. The following Easter, I was crazy big pregnant with Shulamith, who was born April 30, 1986. I doubt we dyed eggs that year either; however, the following year, with two little ones toddling around, I know we did. So that was the start of 23 years of Easter Bunny duty. Were there years that the whole process seemed tiresome, time-consuming, and messy? Yep. Did I place it right up there with pumpkin carving, another of my least favorite activities? Yep. As you know, these kinesthetic tasks that require artistic ability are hard for me. I'm not naturally talented in this way.

However.

This year, I rejoiced at the prospect of dyeing and hiding eggs. Here's the thing. Seth is nine years old. I have no idea when the year will come that he looks me in the eye and and declares, "Seriously, Mom, I am TOO old to hunt for Easter eggs." I don't know when that year will come, but come it will. I know that because I've already been there four times. Will it be next year, or the year after? I don't know. What I do know is that it wasn't this year, and I am delighted.

Seth was as excited as ever about the whole process of Easter eggs. His dad hard-boiled the eggs (I don't do that step; see previous blog post for details), and Eli bought the standard Paas egg dye. The difference this year: Seth wanted to dye the eggs entirely on his own; he even wanted to read the directions on the Paas package and mix the dye himself. So I got everything out (vinegar, measuring spoons, individual cups) and let him have at it. I put in a P90X DVD and began my workout. By the time I finished, beautifully-colored eggs were lined up in the egg carton, and the mess was surprisingly minimal. He is surely growing up.

Last night after he was asleep, Gerald and Eli and I filled plastic eggs with a variety of candy. As always, we ate nearly as many pieces as we put in the eggs. We laughed. It was good. Then early this morning, Gerald hid both the plastic eggs and the colorful hard-boiled eggs all around the house. Seth slept until after 9:00. When he awoke, he came into my room and cuddled with me under the covers before asking, "Do you think the 'Easter Bunny' came?" He knows full well there is no Easter Bunny, but pretending was fun for both of us. The hunt took nearly 1/2 hour, and all the eggs were found.

I know people around my age whose children are all grown and gone. I've even heard some of them make comments like, "We are really enjoying the empty nest." I believe them. I do. I can even say I'm happy for them, I guess. But I would not want to be them. Days like today make me pause and once again feel so thankful that we still have a young child at home. Seth will be here with us for at least another nine years, although the Easter egg hunts will end long before then.

Does it get any better than this?

Occasionally, Easter falls on the first Sunday in April which is always General Conference weekend for our church. When this happens, we get both Easter and General Conference in the same weekend. I can't wait! I mean really, does it get any better than this? Not as far as I'm concerned.

My goal today was to get as much accomplished as possible to increase my chances of getting to watch all four sessions (eight hours) of conference with minimal interruption. First, I hit Costco where I bought the biggest, most beautiful strawberries I believe I've ever seen. The plan: strawberry shortcake. I also bought mini angel-food cakes (no, relax, I'm not baking), and two-dozen eggs. Next, I headed for my favorite bagel shop because I'm totally thinking egg salad bagel sandwiches for Sunday. Sadly, I was too late; the shop closes at 3:00 p.m. and I arrived just ten minutes after. There's still hope, though. Maybe Gerald could stop by the bagel shop tomorrow morning after he takes Seth to the Easter egg hunt at MSU?

I realize most people do fancy Easters dinners; you know, like they cook hams and turkeys and stuff. But, well, this year I just don't want to. I WANT to watch conference. So this egg salad idea seems perfect. We'll already have the hard-boiled eggs because Seth will want to dye them tomorrow night and hunt for them first thing Sunday morning. Also, this leaves the only real work completely out of my hands because Gerald is the hard-boiled egg maker in our family. That policy took shape years ago. You see, I sort of have this "issue" with hard-boiled eggs. I follow all the directions perfectly, but when it comes times to peel them, the shells never want to come off. And I get SOOOO mad! You don't even know. If I can't peel each egg perfectly, like totally smooth with no dents, I become so frustrated that I just squish the whole thing in my hand. I've even been known to throw the egg right out the window. So yeah, Gerald took over the task of boiling eggs years ago. He doesn't share any of my perfectionistic tendencies and doesn't mind the dents at all.

Sunday dinner: egg salad bagel sandwiches, strawberry shortcake, and Easter candy. Yum!

My next stop was Albertson's where I bought some cream cheese and sliced turkey for the strange people in my family who do not like egg salad. I also got chips, pop, and a cheese ball with crackers. Eli was working, and he told me to go back and get shampoo. "Dad is out, and he keeps using mine, and mine is expensive." Got it.

Now I'm home contemplating a plan to get the house in shape, so we don't have to worry about that tomorrow either. As you can see, I'm not making great progress there, but it's only 7:00 p.m. Have faith! Tomorrow, we're scheduled to feed the sister missionaries currently serving in our ward, but guess what? I don't want to cook tomorrow night either. How does Papa Murphy's take-and-bake pizza with green salad sound? They get plenty of home-cooked meals, right? Okay, that's settled.

Easter and General Conference all in one weekend. Does it get any better than this?

Happy General Conference weekend to those for whom that matters, and Happy Easter to all!