For My Children

”Mom” is a title she wears with

Ease and grace,

Loving without condition

In spite of challenges

Sacrificing

Self for

A little girl.

Stealing

Tender moments and

Etching them in

Photographs to share with

Her family, who can’t

Always be

Near to watch her children

In captivating,

Energetic childhood.

Allowing affection from his mother

Leaning his tall frame down to her height

Elegant and handsome in his uniform

eXuding strength

And character.  His mother beams with

Nervous pride while he

Departs for his triumphant

Entrance into adulthood and

Real life.

Anyone can

Make it in New

York.  It takes unique

Bravery and strength to

Rise above the challenge and

Yell in the face of

Negative addictions, emerging a

New, beautiful person.

Dedicating his life to being

A person she can love,

Vowing to cherish his wife

In spite of her tiny

Dog.

Mingling with angels

In Heaven, keeping

Close watch over

His brothers

And sister on

Earth until they come to

Live in Paradise, too.

Mending

Anything and everything

Rescuing broken furniture and

Curing the ills of the building

Unsung heroes roam the

School.

Keeping busy

Expending energy with

Vigor, as if he never needs to

Rest, doing it

All if possible, and staying

Neatly out of trouble.

Dictionary

/dik-shuh-ner-ee/

A

lphabet n. She is a precocious three-year-old.  She knows all the letters and what they say.  “What does ‘cat’ start with?”  “C,” she declares, and runs to “look it up” in the old encyclopedia on the bottom shelf.

B

utterfingers n.  Consistently dropping things, pain shooting up to my shoulder.  When I finally see a doctor he sends electricity from fingertips to forearm.  He says the nerves are blocked; I need a ligament clipped before the nerves completely die.  When I come out of surgery, the incision hurts less than the blocked nerve did.  I don’t bother to fill my painkiller prescription.

C

artoon n. Mel Blanc (1908-1989) performed the voices of Bugs Bunny, Porky Pig, Pepe le Pew, Sylvester, Yosemite Sam, Foghorn Leghorn, and Daffy Duck.  He died in 1989, leaving a generation of cartoons speechless. 

D

ead adj. Dusty, dried roses hang from a hook in the corner of the ceiling.  They crumble under the touch even of housefly wings.  They are left over from a funeral, and no one can bear to throw them away.  A spider made his home in them once, but even the cobweb is dry and dusty now, the spider is long gone.  Sometimes red and lavender petals fall to the floor, and get swept up with the dog hair. 

E

volution n. Coke began as a medicinal concoction of cocaine and caffeine and sugar.  Early addicts must have felt fantastically energetic and productive.  It evolved from there into Coke, New Coke, and Coke Classic.  I depend on Diet Coke to get through my day.

F

ashion n. I hear compliments often about how I always look pulled together, dressed up, and fashionable.  I will tell you my secret: throw on a blazer.  That’s it.  That’s the whole secret.  A blazer turns any top and any pants into an outfit in one easy step.

G

ood adj. Good food.  Good kids.  Good sex.  Good education.  Good book.  Good movie.  Good student.  Good teacher.  Good dog.  Good day.  Good twin.  Good grief.  Good business.  Good game.  Good music.  Good loser. 

H

ungry adj. I met him on an internet dating site, and agreed to have dinner with him.  He stole my lobster off my plate and ate it.  I ate salad and breadsticks and went home hungry.  I vowed never to go on a blind date again.  My friends refer to him as “Lobster Boy.”

I

mpressionism n. Perhaps Claude Monet was actually a realist, seeing through nearsighted eyes the vague shapes and colors of distance.  His paintings inspired a movement of nearsighted artists, all painting the world in soft focus, as they saw it. 

J

oke n. I only know one good joke.  It is in American Sign Language, and makes no sense in English.  There is no written form of ASL, so I cannot tell my joke here.

K

issing v. When the boys started school, they stopped allowing goodnight kisses from me.  Kisses embarrassed them, made them look uncool, like mama’s boys.  Still little boys, they needed affection as much as they avoided it.  Still a mom, I needed affection from my little boys.  Their dad and I discovered a way to kiss them goodnight that let them look cool anyway.  We kissed our fingertips, and tapped the tops of their heads, passing kisses from lips to hands to heads.  As they grew older, the tap grew stronger—never strong enough to damage, but enough to make them laugh and keep from crossing the tenderness limit.  One of the boys laughingly avoided the tap, so we would wrestle him to the ground, giggling and shouting, at bedtime every night, trapping his hands and forcing a kiss/tap on the top of his head. 

L

ove v. A teenage couple sits on my loveseat, fighting to trap each other’s thumbs in a battle that makes them both laugh.  If she succeeds and captures his thumb, she declares a victory for herself.  If he wins, she rules the game a mismatch, and demands a rematch.  By this point system, she wins every time.  His advantages of size and strength are nothing in the face of her big blue eyes.  He loses, but he loses with good cheer because he gets to sit with a pretty girl on the loveseat.

M

yopia n. And God said, “Let glasses be invented,” and Ben Franklin invented them.  And God said, “Let soft contacts be invented,” and Otto Wichterle invented them.  Every morning I put my glasses on, or I put contacts in my eyes, and God and I both see that it is good.

N

o adv. When our granddaughter was two, and behaving like a typical terrible two-year-old, her mother asked if she ever threw temper tantrums at our house.  We were puzzled.  We never told her “no.”  What on earth would she throw a temper tantrum about?

O

mnivorous adj.  I will read anything with words, from the meaty Jeffrey Eugenides to the whipped fluff of James Patterson.  I will even read the back of a shampoo bottle since books get ruined in the shower.

P

arenting n.      Me: “Will you do my homework for me?”

                        Son: “If I do it you won’t learn anything.”

                                    How long has he been waiting to say that to me?

Q

uasi adj.  All of the nominal power of a university resides in the president’s office.  The real power flows in the classrooms and halls, with students and professors working in concert to change minds, change methods, change the world.

R

elease v. My baby will grow up, become an adult, move out of my house.

I will let him go, unwillingly because he is my baby.  It will be the end of an era.

I will cry at my empty nest.

I will wish for his babyhood.

I will wander aimlessly through my clean, quiet house, remembering the fingerprints on furniture and walls (and footprints on the ceiling. don’t ask).

He will have children, and they will come, and I will feed them cookies and let them put dirty fingers on the coffee table, and tell them how their father got footprints on the ceiling.

And I will laugh when they try it at home.

S

platter v. My granddaughter drops her water cup, murky brown from rinsing her paintbrush in it.  My kitchen wall now looks like a splatter painting by Jackson Pollock.  She giggles and wants to splash more paint on the wall.  Maybe I should have her sign my wall with one of her markers.

T

hought n. As I sit in meditation, I notice thoughts rise and fall in no particular pattern: only vague impressions of ideas remain in the ridges of the gray matter in my brain.  Sometimes the ideas are good, but I never remember them clearly.

U

vula n.  What is that little hangy-down thingy in the back of my mouth?

V

illain n. Fantasy novels make everything very clear.  The good guys display every virtue, and no vices.  The bad guys, usually in positions of power, slaughter and imprison innocents by the dozen.  Fantasy makes perfect escape literature, showing the world in stark relief of black and white, with no complicated grayscale.  Would that real life were so easy.

W

ar n.  I have two sons in the Army.  They volunteered to risk life and limb for the freedom of people around the world.  Military moms beam with pride at the honor and courage of our sons, but we worry, a lot.

X

-ray n.  Dr. Seuss says, “X is always for ‘x-ray’”  I would not dream of proving the good doctor wrong.

Y

es adv.  Will you marry me?  Am I pregnant?  Will this hurt?  Is there a cure?  Are you mad at me?  Can we get a dog?  Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?  Have you found Jesus?  Would you like to dance?

Z

apper n.  The spring air whispers softly through the newly leafed trees.  The night smells of lilacs and apple blossoms.  The only sound is the occasional sizzle of a dying moth.

Loss

            The moment a woman suspects she might be pregnant, she begins to love that baby.  She may give up her favorite vice—caffeine or nicotine, perhaps.  She eats healthy food in place of junk, maybe.  She starts taking vitamins more consistently.  She wears her seatbelt in the car, even if she hates it.  Why?  Because she knows hers is not the only life affected by what she does.  Everything she takes into her body, or puts her body into, has an effect on someone else now.  She can’t pretend to be her own person anymore. 

            One day she is sure.  She tells her husband, and he changes his behavior, too.  He notices how small and fragile his wife is.  He spoils her, takes care of her, coaxes her to take care of herself.  He loves her more than he did before, because she is building this whole new person that is also a part of him.  He makes her feel so loved and cherished that she begins to wonder why she didn’t get pregnant months ago.

            The two of them start to talk.  They talk about names, about money, about how to arrange the furniture to accommodate a tiny person.  They debate the merits of a family bed, private preschools, the children’s program at their church.  They laugh over his conviction that the baby will be a boy, and commiserate over her conviction that the baby will be a hellion. 

            It’s too early to tell their families yet, but they talk about how to tell, and when to tell, and wonder what their reactions will be.  Is this a long anticipated baby that the entire family will be thrilled to welcome?  Is this a complete surprise that will shock the family into a few—rare!—moments of quiet?  Will the baby’s older siblings be delighted or jealous?  Will the baby’s grandparents laugh with delight over a first grandchild?  Or with outright hilarity that she is forty (40!) and pregnant, again?

            It’s a secret the two parents share.  They wink at each other when people talk about babies, sneak smiles at tiny people in the grocery store, walk slowly past the baby department at Target, holding hands.  It’s a lovely secret that they whisper about late at night after the kids are in bed and the dogs are asleep.  They plan and dream together, and they love the tiny mass of cells that will become their baby.

            Sometimes, at five or six weeks, or eight or nine, there are tiny signs that all is not well.  These become unmistakable signs that this baby will not be coming into the family.  This realization is devastatingly, wrenchingly sad.  She cries, and he holds her in helpless frustration.  He can’t fix this for her, and he can’t fix it for himself, either. 

            Their dreams die without a chance to really live.  They are sad for all the things they will never get to do: the cradle they will never buy, the room they will not repaint, the swing set they will not build, the first date they will never meet (and perhaps, the low-heeled shoes she will never wear).  Their hearts break over the loss of this unborn person.

            If this were an older person, the neighbors would bring dinners in, the family would gather, friends would call from all over the world.  But this is not an older person.  This grieving couple is completely isolated.  This is a new secret they share.  No one knows, so no one cares.  No one cries with them or visits them; no one sends sweet cards or kind words.  The world goes on without pause, carrying these two broken people along in its wake. 

            Somehow, they put on public faces and go out to meet the world.  There are bills to pay and jobs to do and life to live.  They stumble through those first days and weeks without really noticing.  They say nothing to their friends and families.  This society does not discuss such things.  This society pushes death and loss into the background, out of sight and out of mind.  There is no language to talk about this loss.  If they did talk, their loss would be minimized, belittled, brushed aside as a small glitch in the universe.  “There will be other babies.”  “It’s probably for the best.”  “It’s nature’s way of taking care of problems.”  Dreading these awful words of sympathy, the grieving parents say nothing. 

            But their sadness is real, their tears are real, their aching hearts and empty arms are real.  Millions of couples know this same heartbreak, these same dying dreams.  They may never know which of their friends most understands, but someone certainly does.  Someone knows just how bad this feels.  They are not alone, not really.

Reason NOT to Marry and Older Man

Today I am mad at him.

Not because of anything he said.  He’s always kind.

Not because he did anything awful.  He never does.

Not because he has quirks and foibles.  Everyone does.

I’m mad because he is going to leave me.  He won’t leave me today or tomorrow, probably not for years to come.  But eventually, he will leave.

He will leave because he is much older than I.  He will leave because, statistically, men die at a younger age than women.  He will leave because he is less healthy than I.  He will leave because his father left his mother way too early.  He will leave because he is not immortal.  In all likelihood, he will die, leaving me alone for 20 years or more. 

Every sign of middle age scares me.  Every forgetful moment or repeated story reminds me.  Every aching joint or numb foot, every threat of high blood pressure, every gray hair and every lost hair angers me.  Every birthday pulls us inevitably closer to the day he leaves.    

I can manage all practical matters surrounding his death.  I can ensure adequate life insurance, buy burial plots, make wills and talk about funeral plans.  I can plan to support myself, make arrangements for the disposition of property, pay off my house and get out of debt.  I can develop a relationship with a grief counselor, increase my faith in an afterlife, pray for strength.

There is no way to prepare for the devastating loss of him.  His DVDs will gather dust, his bookmark won’t move, his glasses will sit untouched in the car.  No one will tell me stories late at night or yell at my shoes.  I will have to learn to make perfect pasta al dente and grill a perfect burger myself. 

He sends the children out the door with the words, “Be careful.”  Everyone knows he means, “I love you.”  He never fails, never forgets.  If someone sneaks out without telling him he sends a text message, “Be careful.”  “Come back,” he means, “You are important.  You matter to me.”  After he leaves, “Be careful” will only mean “be careful.” 

He plays devil’s advocate for all political issues, skillfully and convincingly arguing both sides.  He is annoyingly even-handed and fair-minded, willingly discussing the logic on both sides, and calling out the silliness and stupidity.  When he leaves, I will struggle to see the other sides and different points of view.

He teaches.  I’ve always had a thing for teachers.

He carries soda cans all over the house, needs help to match patterned shirts and ties, turns the light on too early in the morning and off too early at night, leaves socks on the floor and dishes in the sink, thinks four is the correct number of shoes to own, and eats sardines in mustard sauce (shudder!).  He ignores my faults and idiosyncrasies as easily as he ignores bugs on the sidewalk, so I am learning to ignore his.

When he leaves, the chair on the other side of the table will be too empty, the couch will be too long, and the bed will be too cold.  My house will suddenly be too big, but the world will become too small. 

I am mad that he will leave me.  I cry when I hear the songs he’s chosen for his funeral, in anticipation of the real funeral.  Some days, my heart breaks for my own loss.  I lie awake at night, listening to him breathe, dreading all the long, silent nights ahead. 

Today is worth tomorrow’s pain.  He is here, he loves me, he is mine.  I will save up all of the todays, and bring them out one at a time during the tomorrows, chasing pain and bringing remembered love.  

Silence

Silence is a rare thing in our modern world.  Music plays in every public space.  Televisions play with no one to watch them “just for the background noise.”  The ubiquitous iPod plays noise continuously in every ear, lest there be a moment of silence anywhere.  I would argue that silence is as precious as it is rare.

            No television presides in my living room.  Or my family room.  No radio, either.  There is a piano, but it will not play itself.  Noise here connects directly to a person—laughing, talking, playing the piano, pages turning.  People can hear each other easily; if I have to raise my voice to be heard, iPods must be turned down or off.  Here one can carry a thought to its logical (or illogical) conclusion. 

            This society looks askance on my choice not to have a television.  “It must be really quiet in your house” people commonly say.  Rarely do they ask what I do with my time.  But to have no background noise?  That’s weird. 

            Perhaps I put myself at a disadvantage.  I cannot concentrate with a lot of background noise; I am easily distracted.  I have no practice in ignoring noise.  But I can concentrate for a long time.  I can spend two solid hours on one task.  Young people seem to be timed to a television schedule: eight minutes before a commercial comes on, eight minutes of concentration.  A junior high school teacher says he must change topics every seven minutes or he starts losing the focus of his class.  He attributes this to television, and the eight minute maximum on any one thought.

            Music in stores and restaurants is designed specifically to discourage careful thought.  Impulse buys, eat and run, spend more money in less time—music manipulates moods and encourages the flow of the almighty dollar.  Of course businesses want to make money, but does that give them the right to manipulate their clients through sound?  Perhaps being aware of this manipulation mitigates some of its effects, but the sound remains.

            Constant and universal sonic input calls for more decibels to be heard over the ambient racket.  More decibels leads to greater damage to cochlea, and hearing loss, leads to a need for more decibels . . . .  Our hearing is damaged by all the noise.  Silence does no damage to the physical ear.

            The silence of meditation, of prayer, nurtures the soul and mind.  Sitting in meditation, quieting the mind and the body, provides a measure of tranquility to carry through life, easing the difficult patches by calming the spirit.  Spaces and silence in lectures or sermons gives a moment for the thought to settle, be remembered, to stick as it were. 

            Silence as a common good or as an experience is essential to the peaceful inner life of people.  Airspace unencumbered by sound waves is hard to come by.  It must be cherished and preserved wherever possible.

Time Capsules

If I were making a time capsule to be opened by my great grandchildren, I would include:

A book (who won last year’s Pulitzer?)

A movie poster (something recent from Hallmark classics)

Heirloom vegetable seeds (even if they won’t grow anymore)

Pictures of my children at their most adorable

Picture of my dogs, all freshly bathed and looking darling

Paint chips that I keep saying I’ll use to decorate my house someday

Transcript of Thomas Monson lecture

Recent issue of Time and/or National Geographic

If my best friend were making the capsule, and she wanted my great grandchildren to know what I’m really like (not what I pretend I’m like), she would include:

A formulaic fantasy novel (which is what I actually read)

Movie poster from “The Avengers” or some other comic book movie (my favorite movies)

Chocolate wrappers (I don’t even eat heirloom vegetables, let alone grow them)

Pictures of my kitchen sink filled with dirty dishes

Pictures of my dogs all lounging on the couch with muddy feet

Clorox wipes, because wiping grape soda off the kitchen chairs is as close as I get to decorating

Transcript of the K-Bull morning show (makes me laugh every morning)

Recent issue of InStyle and/or People StyleWatch

My high heeled hiking boots (yep, I really own such a thing)

Ticket stubs from “Menopause, the Musical” (all women of a certain age must see this show)

I need a more intelligent life, or friends who are better liars.

Not an Endorsement of Any Political Candidate

If Mitt Romney becomes President of the United States, will President Monson become an official spiritual advisor?  This question, at first glance, seems simple.  But the more I think about it, the more complicated it gets.  Here are some things I’ve been thinking about since this question was posed:

The LDS church has been very clear about its political neutrality.  It does not endorse any political party, nor does it reject any political party currently in the USA (I suspect it would decry a political party bent on annihilation of a race of people, but I don’t know that).  The church officially encourages its members to participate in local politics, taking advantage of all opportunities to be heard, including local caucuses, voting, and writing to legislators.  Both the Democrats and the Republicans, according to the LDS church leadership, have good and bad policies, good and bad politicians.  Members are encouraged to prayerfully choose candidates that will do the most good for the community and country.

            Does prayer help in deciding for whom to vote?  I believe that God loves His children as much today as He did in the time of the Old Testament.  He has not abandoned His children to muddle through as best they can.  Revelation can and does continue on Earth today.  Prayers are answered regularly and clearly, even with answers as specific as how to vote in local elections. 

            Revelation is given to those for whom it is relevant.  I will not, for example, be given revelation about how my friend should raise her children.  That is not my jurisdiction, and not my business.  Each person gets revelation that is relevant and important to his or her own life and responsibilities.  Sometimes the answer may be, “It doesn’t matter.  Either choice would be fine.”  Sometimes the Lord has specific direction for a particular situation.

            Based on these beliefs, I think the real spiritual advisor to Mitt Romney, should he become President of the United States, would be God Himself.  It is not President Monson’s responsibility to govern the country.  He has other responsibilities.  But the US President is certainly entitled to revelation pertaining to his job, as is anyone else.

            I believe this is true no matter who is in office.  Any sincere prayer, accompanied by real faith in the power of God to reveal His will, is answered.  The trick is having that real faith, truly believing the answer will come, and then recognizing the answer when it does come.  A person of faith, willing to ask for and accept the guidance of the Lord, may be the best choice for any political office or other position of leadership.