It's not even safe for me to read Ensign Magazine?

Really?

Sheesh!

Here's the story. As many of you know, I suffer from a severe anxiety disorder that specifies itself to irrational fear of fatal diseases. I've written about it more than once, recently here and here. I won't bother repeating all that garbage; suffice it to say I waste a ridiculous amount of time worrying about diseases I have never had and (hopefully) never will.

So imagine what happens when I actually do get sick. Yeah, it's not good. Fortunately, it happens very rarely. In Seth's words, "Mom, you and Dad are the two healthiest people I know." It's true. We are. In my case, with five kids, I've been puked on so many times that my immune system has been strengthened sufficiently to ward off just about anything. The key phrase there is  "just about." Occasionally, a germ manages to slip by, and that's what happened a bit over a week ago. My body was somehow infected with a nasty stomach virus. You definitely don't want the details, but believe me; it was awful!

Even more awful, though, was what this triggered in my serotonin-starved brain. I was sure I had stomach cancer or intestinal cancer or gall bladder cancer or something terrible. Since I don't allow myself to look at medical sites, except those devoted solely to anxiety, I made Gerald and Shulamith look, and then begged them to convince me I wasn't dying. Yep, you can laugh. Because it's funny. But when I'm in the middle of it, I am dead (pun intended) serious.

It was one rough week. I would think I was getting better, only to relapse majorly the following day. And I needed to get all the way better physically in order to get better mentally, so these crappy (pun intended this time too!) relapses only exacerbated an already bad situation. Blah!

I am pleased to report that I have been on the upswing, at least physically, for the past three days. And during that time, this month's edition of Ensign Magazine arrived in the mail. Hooray! That evening, I settled into my recliner, prepared to spend the next hour or so perusing my new magazine. I don't read the Ensign cover to cover, front to back; I thumb through it and choose stories as they catch my eye. As I leafed through the first several pages, a title stood out: "A Time for Faith Not Fear." Perfect, I thought. I'd spent the past week consumed with fear. This would surely help. Then I read the first line from the story: "I have a good friend who was recently found to have a cancerous tumor."

What????? Are you freakin' kidding me? Now don't get me wrong. I'm sure it's a wonderful article about the power of faith; I'm sure it is. But I can't read stuff about cancer under normal circumstances. I certainly can't read it this week. I promptly closed the magazine and put it away. I will pick it up again sometime in the future when my very healthy body is completely back to normal and my not-so-healthy mind is more under control.

Have I mentioned that anxiety really sucks?

The Grass is Always Greener...

...on the other side of the fence. You've all heard this expression, its intent to help people realize that, in most cases, what looks so wonderful from afar is not likely any better than what is right here. I get it. And I agree. Philosophically. On a figurative level, that is.

But literally, let me just tell you that the grass IS always greener

• on the other side of the fence
• across the street
• next door
• down the block
• on the next street over
• Everywhere!

It's true. I have been working for the past month to get our yard to be green. I have to water manually because our UGS is non-functional (something the previous owners of this house might have mentioned in their disclosure, but didn't). So I have to do it the old-fashioned way, moving hose and sprinkler around the yard, over and over and over. Seriously, I feel like all I do is water! Now this would be annoying regardless, but the fact that it is a worthless waste of my time makes it nearly intolerable. Despite my best watering effort, my yard still looks terrible. It is not even close to green. Not even close. Everyone else's yard is perfectly green, but not mine. And when my huge water bill comes in the mail any day now, I will then get to pay for this non-green yard. Ugh.

Shulamith and I worked hard last summer and fall to fix up the island garden in the front yard and to dig up all the weeds and plant grass seed in the back. Shockingly, we were actually able to grow grass back there. It's not lush, but it's grass, and I think it will get better. This is all so foreign to me. Remember, I was raised in apartments. We didn't do yard work. Gerald was raised on a small farm where they did this type of thing, but he hated it (something about weed pulling = punishment), so he won't participate. It's all up to me, the kid who grew up in apartments. Great.

I just want my grass to be green. After all our work last summer on the island garden, I would like the grass that surrounds it to be green. It doesn't seem like too much to ask. But, well, maybe it is. Who knows? And I can't continue on with this much longer because guess what? It's time to go move the sprinkler for the billionth time. Yay.

So the next time someone tells you the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, believe him. It's true.

Everyone Goes to Utah!

When our older kids were little and we lived in Washington State, they would often remark: "Everyone at church goes to Utah. Why don't we ever go to Utah?" I would answer quite simply, "Because we don't know anybody in Utah." As adult converts to the Church, we had zero Utah connections. I actually have one friend from the distant past who lives near St. George, but other than Patty, before moving here two years ago, we didn't know anyone in the entire state.

Fast forward two years, and here we are today. I still don't feel like I know many people; I haven't had much luck making friends. But fortunately, everyone goes to Utah! It's true. Almost everyone I know has some connection here: family, friends, kids, former roommates, extended relatives--something to draw him or her to the Salt Lake Valley. And what a blessing that is for me!

One such person is my dear friend, Celeste, pictured above. Doesn't she look adorable, all pregnant with her fifth baby, a boy finally! Her brother-in-law got married two days ago in the Salt Lake Temple, which brought his entire family here, including Celeste, all the way from San Antonio! And her whole family (minus one sister) came too. Celeste's sister Dede had a sweet baby boy two weeks ago; maybe they all came to meet him? I'm not sure. But it was more Clayton/Knight family members in the same place at the same time than will possibly ever be in San Antonio, so Celeste and Matt decided to baptize their daughter, Megan, while so many were together. I think Gerald and I were the only non-family in attendance.

It was so lovely. Little Megan looked adorable in her white dress with her hair french braided down her back. When I first met Celeste, Megan was just a wee babe. I remember her in her infant seat on the floor next to Celeste in Relief Society, when I went over to welcome Celeste and introduce myself. Seems like yesterday. But it was eight years ago. Our time together today was ever so brief, but still, it was so good to see her. I feel a trip to San Antonio beckoning me.

Everyone goes to Utah! And now that we live here, I'm so very thankful that is true.

Black Bean Salsa

I almost never put recipes on this blog. This is my 345th post, and I think I've put a recipe here one time? Why don't I post recipes? Well, for one thing, it's not a cooking blog. More importantly, I'm a terrible cook, so why would I share my recipes so you too can make crappy food for your families? I like you. I wouldn't do that. However, I have discovered a recipe so delicious that I would almost feel guilty if I didn't share it. I am not kidding. This is without question the best thing I've ever made. Okay, okay, so that's not saying much. But seriously, if you like chunky salsa, you should try this. I'm so addicted to this stuff that I make a batch, and once it's gone, I have to make another one that day. It's THAT good.

I got the recipe from a friend's blog, and I will post it exactly the way she did. When I make it, though, I omit the olive oil. Why add fat (even good fat) to an otherwise low fat, low calorie recipe?

Black Bean Salsa (aka best food ever!)

1 15-oz can black beans, drained and rinsed

3 Roma tomatoes, chopped

1/2 C. chopped green onions

1 jalapeno, minced

1 avocado, chopped

Handful of cilantro, finely chopped

1/8 tsp. cumin

1/2 tsp. salt

1 lime, squeezed for juice

2 tsp. olive oil

Black pepper - to taste

Mix all this together, and serve with tortilla chips (the baked kind, if you want to keep it healthy!). As Shulamith's baby Swen would say: "Mmmmmmm." That is his first and only word so far. He LOVES to eat and always expresses his appreciation for food with "Mmmmmmmm."

Tattoo or Bungee Jumping? Yeah, Neither!

With our first couple of children, we parents live in anxious anticipation of each new stage. We encourage them to sit up, crawl, walk, talk, etc. just as soon as they are able. It's so crazy thrilling to see each new developmental milestone that we are in an awful hurry. By the fifth child, however, it is a bit different. By now, we know how fast time passes. We know they don't stay little nearly long enough. We've experienced first hand the heart-wrenching goodbyes as they head off to school for the first time. We have so much more perspective, and we are in no rush. It's not that we don't want them to grow; of course we do. But there's certainly no need to hurry.

Pictured above is my fifth child, my very last baby. The significance of this photo is that it demonstrates so clearly, whether I wish to admit it or not, that he is just about as tall as I am. And in case you're wondering, that's just wrong! As of last year, I no longer have a kid in elementary school, I no longer have a kid in Primary, and as of right now, I no longer have a kid who is shorter than I. Are you kidding me? I feel like screaming at the universe: "What is your deal? I am a mom of little kids!" Seth will be 13 in less than two weeks. A teenager! I don't even know what to say about that, so maybe I won't say anything.

Today, while I was lamenting this tale of woe to Shulamith, she had  a couple ridiculous suggestions. She thinks maybe I should do something new, something adventurous, something crazy, in order to take my attention away from Seth turning 13 and growing to be 5'5". "I think you should get a tattoo or something!" Or something? Because don't you either get a tattoo or not get one? And truth is, I have ZERO interest in getting a tattoo. In fact, I have less than zero interest. "Maybe you should go bungee jumping?" What? Is she delusional? Okay, I'd sooner go bungee jumping than get a tattoo, but no. No!

Still, it's no lie that watching this last one grow up isn't easy for me. My students recently read a number of articles on happiness, in order to compare and contrast the authors' perspectives in an essay. Though the articles disagreed on various minor points, there was huge consensus in several areas. For one, so long as basic, essential needs are met, money or socioeconomic status has nothing to do with happiness. Neither do educational achievements or geographical location. What does make people happy? A few fairly basic things. Married people, overall, are happier than single people. Religious people tend to be happier than non-religious. In general, men's happiness depends more on their jobs while women's happiness depends more on their relationships. But the absolute weirdest finding was how happiness relates to age. According to one article, the happiest people on earth are those in their 80s. Very young adults are the next happiest; they are still optimistic and see all the opportunities life has to offer. But once they get into their late 20s and are burdened down with jobs, bills, kids, and more bills, that happiness level decreases steadily, clear until they reach age 50 or so, when it once again starts to increase, steadily, until their 80s, when they are running around in a state of utter euphoria.

One of my students suggested that "of course, 80-year-olds are happy; everyone they owe money to is dead." Well, yes, there's that. I don't know about you guys, but I am obviously not typical. Aside from the fear that my 80-year-old body would not look good in cute, stylish clothes, I cannot imagine being that blissfully happy at 80 because all my kids would be grown and gone. Perhaps it's not popular or even politically correct to say this, but happiness to me equals a houseful of kids. That's the way I like it. If I didn't feel that way, I wouldn't have had so many or spread them out over so many years. And though we still have five wonderful years left with Seth at home, that foreboding empty nest to come looms over me. What if, though I'm still so young, the best years are already behind me? I'm sure there are things to look forward to; I'm sure there probably are, but nothing really compares to the joy of life with all the kids at home, at least in my opinion.

I will work through this. I will figure it all out. I will. And let me reassure you; I will do it without any tattoos or bungee jumping.  :-)