Four eyes

Something I wonder about my blog.

1. Should I continue to write whatever sort of drivel pops into my head?

2.  Should I only post something that is Worthy and Well Written?  (so, you know, blog less frequently...)

I am reading The Walk by Richard Paul Evans for book club.  In it I read this (and I'm paraphrasing):  if you wait to write just the important things then you'll probably never write anything, because important things look like everything else except when you look back on them.

Someday, I may look back on the day Emma drew eyes on her eyelids and be glad I documented it.

Or maybe I'll just wonder, like I did at the time, why they don't give her more homework.

I love this girl.  She's a little bit nuts, but I love her.

While I was away...

First I want to apologize for any alarm I caused.  The people who know and love me best immediately called, texted, inquired.  Are you OK?  It seemed like I had sent up the ultimate smoke signal of distress.

I didn't mean to be so melodramatic (but I did appreciate the concern).  I needed to step back.  I needed to focus.

Am I the only person who has identity and other kinds of crises (real or imagined) on a regular basis?

Because I do.

I didn't know what I wanted to do, just that what I was doing wasn't working.  I decided to take a break from blogging and felt a little relieved.  I asked myself when I would go back to it.  Why did I need a break?  What was the deal anyway? Then I told myself to relax.  I didn't have to answer any of those questions.

So I didn't.

Am I the only person who has full conversations with myself?

Because I do.

I didn't ever think I would abandon my blog really and truly.  I love writing too much (and it's such a lovely outlet for a little catharsis or narcissism or both).

Yesterday Marianne called me and asked, "Do you need me to take over some of your responsibilities so you can have enough time to blog?"  (Yes, the mother of six.  The homeschooler of four.  The bishop's wife. She doesn't have anything going on.  I think I'll have her do some of my work--no really, I would if I could.) I decided to dust off the old laptop.

So am I a better and wiser person now, after my hiatus?  Probably not.

But I am happy to be blogging again.

A New Quote

I like to write quotes on the chalkboard by my front door.  Occasionally one of my children (Braeden) highjacks my quote board and writes one of their (his) own.  (And then sometimes Adam alters Braeden's quote.)  Get your own quote boards.

Here's what I wrote on my board lately.

I need more awesomeness in my life.  I need to think more about what awesomeness means to me.  I need something different.

Maybe I need different weather?  (Dear Seattle:  I hate you...don't worry, I'm fickle.  I will love you again sometime.  Maybe when you stop raining.  Just think about it, OK?)

Maybe I need more sleep?

Maybe I need more time?  More perspective?

Maybe I need to arrange furniture?

I don't know.

I'm going to try to take some time off from some of the things I do.  Some of the dailiness.  Blogging for one thing.  I'll try to figure things out.

I'll be back.

Fat Old Lady Yogurt

There are a lot of reasons to love teenagers.  One is the dose of humility they serve up.  Regularly.

Earlier this week, I packed Braeden a lunch.  I was out of grapes or fruit of any kind (I blame Mark who is always on-the-verge-of-perishing hungry)  and needed something else for his lunch.  I found some yogurt in the back of the fridge and popped it in Braeden's lunch bag to supplement the sandwich, cookies, chocolate milk, string cheese, granola bar.  He is also always on-the-verge-of-perishing hungry.

So naturally, you'd think Braeden would come home from school and tell me how much he appreciated my time and effort in packing him a lunch.  Naturally.

He told me he and his friends had declared it fat old lady yogurt and he brought it back home.

In other words, thanks but no thanks.

I love that boy.

(I keep reminding myself.)

I do not consider myself a fat old lady.  I do realize however, that I am no spring chicken either.  At Disneyland, I noticed the shoes other people were wearing and thought, "Their feet are going to hurt them later."

Then I thought, "Wow, I am getting old."

I seldom do risky things like stay up past 10:30.  When Emma wanted me to take her to the midnight showing of The Hunger Games, I told her it was adorable when she said such funny things.

I also remember going to the midnight movie at the Varsity Theater many weekends when I was in college.

I am getting old.

But there are occasional glimmers of risk taking.  Glimmers that there's life in the old girl yet.

I have a favorite wall in my house.  It's in my stairwell.  I like it because I decided to turn it into a gallery wall.  I decided I should try to place everything carefully, measuring and the like.

Then I told myself it was adorable when I thought such funny things.

I do better when I just use my eye instead of measuring.  I trust my eye more than my accuracy at math.

Here's the wall.

It is far from perfect but I love it and I love that there's space to add more when the mood strikes.

The perfect amount of risk for someone with fat old lady yogurt in her fridge.

Tax Dollars at Work

Yesterday there was a band trip of some description and Emma said that most of the kids were gone from her block of language arts and history classes.  (They're honors classes and maybe there's a correlation, honors classes = band kids.)  Whatever the reason, the classes were sparse.

So the teachers did what teachers sometimes do and showed a movie.

The Disney cartoon, The Jungle Book.

The teacher said if the principal found out, they would say they were watching it because they'd been studying about Africa in history.

Emma said, "I didn't want to tell her it's set in India."

I wonder if someone should mention The Lion King.  You know, for next time.

Springing Forward is the Pits

Saw this on facebook via my cousins Britta and Leslie.  What would I do without you two?

Sunday night no one wanted to go to bed.

Including me.

Then Monday morning I woke up in a definite haze.  I don't even think you can call it a haze.  It was hazier than a haze.  I woke up Braeden.  I woke up Emma.  I went back to bed.

At 7:00, I woke up again, surprised that it was "so late."  (It wasn't late, stupid Daylight Savings Time.)  I took a hot bath which is the best way to approach any day.  Adam staggered in the room and said, "Didn't you wake up Braeden?"

"Yes!"

Adam threw on some clothes and said, "He's freaking out because school is starting."

"Is Emma still here?" I inquired.

"I don't know."

Oh, dear.

But really, what could I do at that point so I stayed in the hot bath.

I worried about Janet wasting her time trying to pick up Braeden for seminary and our house being dark and sleeping.  I decided to call her and beg forgiveness.  (Last week had its share of debacles in this regard too.  Let's just say Janet is very forgiving and Braeden will never flirt with girls again when he's supposed to be ready to be picked up from play practice.  He'd better not.)

But then I saw an email from Janet and there had been no seminary yesterday anyway.

And I had no idea?

Am I maybe the least organized, discombobulated person alive?

When Adam got home from the panicked getting Braeden to school on time, I said, "Did you know there WAS no seminary today?"

He said, "Yeah, Braeden remembered on the way to school."

Sheesh.

Later Mark, who tends to grouse about whatever seems available, was complaining about Benjamin Franklin and Daylight Savings Time.  He refuses to accept the new time.  He keeps telling me what time it "really" is.

I don't know.

I just want to feel like I have a handle on my life.  Is that asking too much?

When it was still light after dinner last night, I felt happier about everything.  I think I can be friends with Daylight Savings Time after all.  

My Own Special Touch

My sisters and mom are the only people on the planet that will get the title of this post.  It's still worth it though.

I decided to make a cake on Friday.   I found this recipe called Grandma's Chocolate Layer Cake.

(Which is sort of misnamed if you ask me because the cake is not chocolate, just the frosting.)

(But who am I to judge?)

I more or less followed the recipe.  (Following recipes to the letter is not exactly my forte.)

I don't know if I didn't grease the pans sufficiently or if I should have taken them out of the pans earlier (it was silent reading time and I lost track of time) or maybe it was something else altogether.  But the cake would not come out of the pans.  I tried all my usual tricks and ended up with this:

I (naturally) nibbled some of the crumbs and the cake was very good.  I had to salvage it somehow.

I remembered cake pops which are delicious but troublesome.  They are made with cake crumbs and frosting.  (And I had cake crumbs!)

I cut the frosting recipe by 1/3 (probably--my math in my head skills are dodgy).  And why 1/3?  I don't know.  I also had neither bittersweet chocolate nor milk chocolate.  I used a combination of semi sweet, unsweetened and white chocolate.  It worked.  Can you go wrong with chocolate?

Then I added pieces of cake:

It resulted in a sort of indefinable creation:

It was the consistency of cookie dough and reminded me of the pudding cakes Adam used to bring me back from London.  Delicious.

Later, after dinner, I arranged balls of the concoction with raspberries and whipped cream.  Gavin was here with us and watching me arrange. He asked, "Are you making faces?"  I told him I was making something much more exciting than faces.

He said, "What is more exciting than faces?"

Probably nothing now that I think about it.

But if ever you ever wreck a cake, don't despair.  This was pretty good.