January Hits and Misses

At the beginning of the month, I sat down and wrote a list of things I would like to accomplish in January.

Note: I'm notoriously bad at following lists.

I separated the items into spiritual, physical, and other. The ideas was that as I accomplished the goals, I'd cross them off, making it look like I was accomplishing important stuff--like cures for cancer or solving world hunger--instead of just cleaning out the house for the upteenth time.

My paper is surprisingly bare of pencil marks indicating my accomplishments. Good thing I'm not trying to cure cancer or solve world hunger.

But I still have two days. The month isn't over yet.

First up--Food Storage.

We've been talking and thinking about food storage for a long time now. Our (read: my) biggest hang up is I don't know where to start. I gave an awesome lesson in Relief Society on food storage in July and got some great ideas, but then with the baby and school, I never implemented anything.

When I think of food storage I think of big bins of wheat that I don't know how to use and cans of beans that neither of us like. What needed to happen was for me to rethink my food storage stereotypes.

Each month last year in the ward newsletter, there was a section devoted to food storage. I usually skimmed (read: skipped) these sections because I was too overwhelmed by all the talk on wheat and grains and 300 pounds per person for an entire year and where to put it all--you know, the little details.

As a last lifeline, God threw us this pamphelet, made up of all those articles from the newletters, that landed nicely on our front doorstep the first Sunday of the new year. Okay, it probably wasn't God, it was more likely a deacon, but, the message was still loud and clear. Get your food storage together. Now.

Each month, there's a different focus, broken up into easy-to-understand-and-follow guidelines. As a bonus, 72 hour kits are featured as well--broken up into 12 easy to follow steps. Yeah, I know. We don't have 72 hour kits either. If something castastrophic were to happen, we'd have to rely on our neighbors to keep us alive.

So the assignment for January was to take inventory of what's in your pantry and then determine how much more you need for the rest of your food storage. You're also suppose to buy your containers for your 72 hour kits. Totally doable.

I set off with the pantry, relieved because I've been wanting to clean out the kitchen for a while now. You know when it gets so bad that you can't bear to open the pantry doors or the cupboards because it's too crowded and you can never find what you're looking for? Well, it's been that way for a while now. So, for January, my goal was to clean out the kitchen--pantry, cupboards, refrigerator, freezer. The whole kit and kaboodle.

I'm happy to report that I did accomplish the kitchen. The pantry is cleaned out. The food inventoried. The cupboards are clean. I was even able to free up a few to house food storage items until our basement gets finished. I even picked up backpacks for our 72 hour kits. I'm pretty proud of myself for these minor triumphs. Hopefully it will offset the disappointment from not reaching the other goals.

Next on my list--my goal is to read the standard works this year, starting with the Book of Mormon. To accomplish this lofty goal, I need to have read 248 pages, or about 10 pages a day, in the Book of Mormon for January. I did so good at the beginning of the month, reading during Aunika's 6 am feeding. But then I got lazy and would just bring her back to bed and feed her there while I sorta slept sitting up against the wall that the bed butts up to. I'm about 153 pages shy of 248 pages. That's just plain embarassing.

As for physical goals--I was all gungho about starting to exercise and I was going to faithfully do it 60 minutes a day. Uh-huh. That didn't happen.

I was also going to eat five servings of fruits and five servings of vegetables a day, drink 64 oz of water a day and run three miles without stopping. I only accomplished the three miles--and it was painfully slow. But I did it. I was also going to give up caffeine. I'm happy to report that I haven't had any caffeinated beverages since December 31. I just replaced all the caffeine I was drinking from my daily diet coke with caffeine from chocolate, but we'll work on that in February.

Some other goals I had were to write 13,500 words--about 500 words a day--and I'm only 7000 words short on that. Rework the finances--but that all got screwed up with the purchase of our new vehicle. And make up shopping lists for meals--which I haven't even started.

I did get Aunika's room cleaned out and her clothes sorted.

Speaking of Aunika, she weighed in at 11 lbs 2 oz and 24 inches long at her 2 month appoinment this last week. That puts her in the 50th percentile for weight and 97th percentile for height. That explains why nothing seems to be fitting anymore. I weighed her at home last week and she only weighed 10.5 pounds. So she gained nearly a pound in a week. I knew she was going through a growth spurt because she was eating all of the time. We've even slept through the night (eight hours) two nights in a row. We'll consider this a hit for January.

It looks like I had a lot more misses than hits for January and a lot of catching up to do in February.

Farewell My Foul-Weather Friend

Farewell little guy. You've treated us well over the years. You took us backpacking and ice fishing and to Grandma's house and back. We tested your limits and each time, you responded like a champ.

You ferried us to our brand new home. You carried enough sprinkler pipe to lay sprinklers for the entire yard--even when it was said you couldn't do it. We changed your windshield, only to hit a bird the next week and cracking it again. You wore that wound like a soldier, reminding us each time we met how bad it was for the bird.

You never failed us when we needed you most, saving us from certain death on more than one occassion.

You were hotter than snot during the summer and yet, we kept you for another two summers when I promised myself it was the last one. When you blew a tire this last summer in 104 degree weather, I only mildly cursed you and it was all under my breath. I promise.

You didn't laugh during my opera phase, when I would cruise you through the streets with the windows down and the tenors blasting. You didn't scuff at my talk-radio days.

You didn't whine when I accidently hit you into a light post when I was nine months pregnant and couldn't manuever my swollen belly to look out the window. Three weeks later, you carried our newborn son home.

You drove me to my final class at the University of Utah, and then drove me to my final, final class nearly 18 months later, costing me $17 for a ticket.

You got me pulled over two years ago because there was no front license plate and instead of remedying the situation, I flirted with danger for the next 24 months. I never did get pulled over again.

You've taken me skiing and camping and off-roading. You took us down to St. George during a horrific blizzard so I could run a 5k on my way to a marathon. You housed a cat for one terrifying ride on the freeway that made a few people's day. Not mine. But those passing me by when I was trying to keep my eyeballs from being pierced by a screaming cat.

But, as all good things do, you were getting old. And tired. And we sensed that and so we've sent you on to a better place. A happier place. Mexico, as we were told you'd probably end up, will fit you just fine.

And we replaced you. With something totally nice. Not that you weren't nice. You just weren't nice like this. Like leather seats and sun roofs and heated mirrors. You were bareboned and boring. Functional. College student rated. And now we're in a different phase of life and so we've upgraded.

The guys at the dealership gave us $1000 for you. I thought to myself that it was probably $1500 too much, but I wisely kept my mouth shut. There's no way to put a price on your loyalty.

As we pulled out of the lot in our new (to us) Honda Pilot, I couldn't help but take one last look at you and remember our good times. And our bad. And how, any day, it could've been really bad.

So farewell, my foul-weather friend. I cursed you nearly every day in the summer, but you know it was the heat (and the baby) talking. You never held it against me. I hope you find all that you're looking for.

I Won!

I received word this morning that I won the writing contest I entered to fulfill #21 on my list. How cool is that?

I called everyone I could think of that would care and no one answered. How uncool is that?

But I'm not going to let my good spirits be dampened. My prize is a crate of clementines from Spain. Again, how cool is that?

The most exciting thing is that I actually won. I read the other entries and there were some talented writers with some great stories. Sometimes, I reread my stuff and think it's lame and boring and I can point out all the flaws. It's nice to have a complete stranger read something I've written and pick it as the best.

Watch out J.K. Rowling. Here I come!

Blessing or Curse

For four long years, Wade has been ward clerk. It's a position that requires some time commitment on Sundays, but never really any other time. For that reason, it's a good calling to have. However, for four long years, I've been in charge of getting Josh ready for church. A lot of Sundays, it's been a struggle. Now, with two kids, it's even more so. Coupled with my calling as Relief Society Secretary, Sundays are chaos at the house.

This year, we moved to the 9:00 timeblock. There are pros and cons to the 9:00 timeblock and I'm not sure where I stand in the debate. For whatever reason, I cannot get myself up in time to make it to church by 9:00. I need someone there to help me. I'm grumpy and uncooperative. I realize this and feel (slightly) bad about it. However, I love the fact that church is done by noon and I can each lunch and take a long afternoon nap.

The ward split a few weeks ago, and Wade was released. This means that I have him back to myself on Sunday mornings. No more meetings. I'm confident that he was released solely to be my waker-upper on Sunday mornings. It's a calling worse than ward clerk and I feel for him. I wouldn't want to be my waker-upper either.

However, the elation of Wade's release was hampered when he was extended the calling of Scoutmaster. With him gone two nights a week with school, plus the nights spent doing homework and the basement and the baby, I was a little hesitant about adding something so big to his (my) plate. Another night gone a week. Weekends on campouts. Scout camp in the summer. But I realize the calling for what it is and so I gave him my blessing. I'll try to not lament the fact that he's gone so much as it is.

On Sunday, we were joking with the bishopric that Wade wasn't qualified to be Scoutmaster because we don't have a car big enough to haul boy scouts. When you think of Scout leaders you think of guys with Suburbans driving unruly 12 year olds around. We don't have a Suburban. Our cars only fit 5 people max. I might have even suggested that God would smite our poor car and then we'd be forced to buy a new one.

So fast forward to last night when Wade arrives home from work. He casually mentions that one of the cars is acting up. Something to do with the tire or axle or something. I'm not really paying attention to the details because it's all Latin to me. Just that he's taking the other car to work and to be careful if I choose to drive the broken one.

As I'm driving Josh to preschool I get to thinking that maybe it's not such a great idea to drive the vehicle at all, especially with two kids in it. For starters, if a wheel were to pop off, that would be bad. And then I'd have to haul myself, a newborn, and a three year old off the road and presumably have to hike to somewhere with a phone because mine is at home on the piano.

I called Wade when I got home and we got to talking. The gist as I understand it is that we probably shouldn't drive the vehicle on the freeway in case something bad were to happen at such a high rate of speed. That pretty much limits me to the county. We should also exercise caution when driving it on the highway to the grocery store. Um...where does that leave me now? Homebound. Of course, I could stay home, day after day, and I wouldn't die. Just wither up into a former shell of my once vibrant self. Come summer, I can hook up my bike trailer and bike with the kids into Wal-mart for our weekly groceries, buying only that which I can carry in a backpack. (True story: That's how I did it in college. Bike to the grocery store and then buy only stuff that could be transported back on my bike. Made for some very interesting meals. But I didn't gain any weight.)

The car has 215,000 miles on it, so this doesn't come as such a surprise, but still, it's a pain.

We started adding up the cost of fixing the vehicle and found the figure to be astounding for how little it's worth (If we were to take their advise and take the worth of the car minus the cost of repairs, we'd have to pay someone to take the vehicle off our hands). And then I recalled that last summer, I came home from Salt Lake one day and announced that I would not drive this car through another summer since the air conditioner is broken. Granted I was pregnant and a little more heat-sensitive than I normally am, but remembering my poor three year old's beet-red face, I realize that I have to stand firm on this. I certainly can't put a baby through that kind of heat.

And so now we're at a crossroads. Part of me is worried about the economy and threatened lay-offs and I would rather wait until the basement was finished and paid for. A large part of me is worried about being homebound and trapped inside a house that feels like it's closing in around me, relying on kind neighbors to ferry me where I need/want to go. But there is a part of me that says that it's stupid to be driving around in a car praying that a tire doesn't just fall off or the steering doesn't jam up, putting you and innocent people at risk. When it's in print like that, the choice is obvious. We either have to ante up the money to fix the car or we have to get a new one. It'd be negligent to be driving something that we know is going to give out any day now. Besides, cellphones are foolproof and how would I carry a three year old and a newborn down the highway when it does go out. There are a lot of dead spots between here and the city where there's no reception.

Better women than me have made the sacrifice to be a one-car family and relinquish their freedoms so their husbands can go to work. I could do it--I wouldn't die--but I just can't imagine myself doing it. I'm filled with dread just thinking about the possibility of not leaving the house. Not being able to load up and go to the grocery store or to the library or to the doctor's office.

Maybe this is our first blessing of accepting such a time consuming calling. Maybe it's time to upgrade our 10 year old vehicle to something more stable and safe.

#21 Enter a Writing Contest

I've always been fascinated with Alaska. In high school when I was looking at colleges, I briefly looked at maybe attending one in Alaska. All the pictures I've seen of Alaska look gorgeous. But then I got to thinking that I don't like the cold. And I hear that it's very cold in Alaska. So, I abandoned those plans and settled for something closer to home.

I'm not sure how I stumbled across this gem of a blog, but she hosts writing contests every month. This is the first month I've entered, but I figured it would be a nice way to knock one more thing off my list. It was relatively painless and though I've told most of these stories in varied posts throughout the last year, it was nice to have it all in one condensed version.

Here is my entry for the January Write-Away Contest sponsored by Scribbit.

It's About Time

I swear his eyes got wider every time I saw him. His face a little paler. His voice catching each time I made even the slightest of movements. I readjusted for the hundredth time, glancing at the clock and cursing myself for not having the restraint to keep from tracking every minute that had elapsed.


While time, scientifically, is quantitative—every minute has 60 seconds and every hour has 60 minutes. No more, no less—any pregnant woman can tell you that time moves in correlation to how bad you have to pee. The worse you have to pee, the slower time moves. There’s no tricking the clock into thinking you don’t have to pee. Somehow it knows.


And so there I sat, day after day, willing the fifty longest minutes of my life to pass so that I could just get up and go pee.


Sure, I could have just gotten up and waddled my way down the (tiny) aisles and out the door, but I was afraid that the professor would go into complete cardiac arrest if I were to make any unexpected moves and so I fidgeted and shifted, lamenting the fact that I was there at all. It’s not easy fitting in as a 28 year old, nine month pregnant lady in an undergraduate math class, where references to Doogie Howser fell on blank stares. I certainly didn’t need to bring more attention to myself. My ever-bulging belly was doing a fine job already.


It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Four years ago, when I was pregnant with my first child, I changed my major from Biomedical Engineering to Mathematics because I would only have to pass a simple test to graduate instead of doing a senior project, thus freeing up my time to carve out my new life as a stay-at-home mom.


It wasn’t until I had only a year left that I realized maybe mathematics was not my forte, and perhaps I would’ve been better served had I chosen Underwater Basket Weaving or Doily Making for Dummies as my course of study. However, I was so close, and so I pressed forward.


I signed up for the elusive test in November of that year, giving myself the opportunity to retake it in April if needed and still be on track to graduate. But I was optimistic. How hard could a multiple choice math test be?


Out of 66 questions, I answered 25. Of those 25, I only correctly answered 8. Since points are deducted for answering incorrectly, my final score was a mere four. Four out of 66 is not a good indicator that I deserve a bachelor’s degree in mathematics.


Chalking the initial test score up to nerves, I vowed to do better in April. I did do better. I scored an eight instead, but I fell short of the needed nine to graduate. I mean, who can’t score a nine on a test that has 66 questions? Basic probability states that by just randomly answering questions, you‘d most likely get higher than a nine. But I couldn’t leave something so crucial up to chance. And so, third time’s a charm, I signed up for the November test again, vowing to study more. Now that I was no longer taking classes, I should be able to find the time to study all the math concepts I had been taught since the beginning of my educational career in first grade.


That third test showed that I had indeed become dumber over the course of the six months that had elapsed between tests. I got the results roughly a week before my husband and I embarked on a weeklong cruise celebrating my graduation, slightly marring the experience.


Confident that I had the test strategies figured out, I signed up yet again to take the test. Since it's only offered twice a year, I would have to wait until April--a full year after I was suppose to have graduated. I was five weeks pregnant with my second child and knew God could not continue punishing me with these tests. I should’ve known better when I was seated next to the steroid pusher who had somehow convinced the test proctors that he was diabetic and therefore needed two bananas, an apple, a bagel, and a tub of cream cheese lest he should lapse into a diabetic coma during the three hour duration of the test. If the unnatural looking muscles on the slight 5'4" student didn't tip the proctors off, what stock could I invest in the credibility of this test?


The only thing the fourth test brought me was severe nausea and a broken toe from kicking the concrete steps leading into the house when the results arrived six weeks later.


Shameless pleading and begging to the academic counselor and later, the dean of the mathematics department, finally gave me an alternate solution. I could take one more undergraduate course in mathematics and they’d be happy to award me my degree. Elated, I jumped at the chance. Clearly, I was not going to pass that test and anything they could offer me was an answer to many a prayer. It wasn’t until I had left the dean’s office that I realized that I would be attending class nine months pregnant. That I could, in fact, give birth during lecture since my due date was three days before the final was scheduled.


I didn’t let those little details deter me. I was going to graduate if it killed me. And so, day after day, I sat in class. The first few weeks, it wasn’t obvious that I was pregnant. But as the semester wore on, my shirts became tighter, my belly bigger. The walk from my car to the building was excruciating, punctuated by the stares of other students, carelessly walking and laughing. I had to be extra cautious. If I fell, I wouldn’t be able to get back up on my own and I’m confident I would’ve died—degree-less—from humiliation on the spot.


I waffled between trying to reschedule the final for after the holiday break and playing dumb. “What baby?” I imagined myself saying if the professor asked. But, smartly, he never did. Pregnant women were not so common on my side of campus. Family and Consumer science-yes, but Mathematics and Engineering-no. I’m not entirely sure that he had ever had seen a pregnant lady in class, and I wasn’t sure how to branch the subject. I found it easiest just to play stupid.


Each day, the professor would arrive at the doorway and sweep his eyes around the classroom. When his eyes fell on mine, I would see the dread creep into them; the color leave his face; the unasked questions “is today the day? Will she go into labor during my lecture? Will I be called upon to deliver a baby in my classroom?” looming in the air. I would imagine that the days he didn’t see me, he would jovially bounce into the room, as though a heavy load was lifted off his shoulders. Perhaps that’s when he was most entertaining—the days I was absent—because I certainly didn’t see that side of him when I was present.


On one poignant occasion, I actually met him in the doorway—him on the way in and me on the way to the bathroom. It was obvious we weren’t both going to fit through the doorway at the same time and so I turned to the side. He backed out of the doorway and into the hall, giving me a wide berth in which to maneuver my swollen body, muttering “sorry” the entire time.


It was about six weeks before my due date when I could no longer fit behind the desk. I congratulated myself on a well-fought pregnancy. I thought for sure, at about six months, I would be scouting the nearby offices for a free-standing chair I could set up in the corner of the classroom, but I had made it to nearly eight. If I turned just right, I could still sit on the chair attached to the desk and not have to cart in a camp chair from home.


Three weeks later, I gave birth to a healthy eight pound baby girl on what can only be described as the most perfect day concerning my math class. We had just been let out for the Thanksgiving holiday, giving me four days in which to recover. With three weeks left until the final, I had ample time to study for the test as well as attend a few of the remaining lectures.
The first lecture I was back, the professor stopped at the doorway to do his cursory glance-over of the classroom. When his eyes settled on mine, they bulged from their sockets. Relief washed over his face and he, as I suspected he did when I was absent, jovially bounced into the room to begin the day’s lecture.


I am convinced that it was those appearances I made after the birth of the baby that sealed my fate as a college graduate since my test and homework scores did not reflect the generous grade I received.


Lots of people go to school for eight years. We call them doctors. A mere nine and a half years after graduating high school, I was finally a college graduate. No doctor, but a graduate nonetheless.

How to Nurse a Giraffe

This is Giraffe.

Giraffe is sad.

Giraffe is sad and hungry.

I must feed Giraffe.

Thought Process: Giraffe is sad>Maybe Giraffe is hungry>When baby is sad and hungry, mom feeds baby>I must feed Giraffe, but how>I know. Joshie eat>Food goes in belly>Giraffe eats from Joshie's belly>Giraffe happy.

I mean, I guess it could be worse, right? At least he's not mimicing the whole nursing thing right down to a tee. Then we'd have a problem.

But, he does see the correlation between eating himself and then feeding the giraffe.

The neighbors send us their kids to help with their homework and sometimes I wonder who I'm going to send Josh to when he gets into school. If we're the best in the neighborhood, who's going to help our kid when we can't figure it out? Oiy.