Booge

Emma and I like to combine words to create a new word.  She's really good at it which surprises no one.  Emma + words.  Yesterday before church she was putting Fritos in a ziploc bag.  In answer to my query, she hadn't time for breakfast and was going to eat them during Sunday School.

"No."

"I will eat them discreetly," she promised.

"No one has ever eaten Fritos discreetly," I said,  "especially in Sunday School."

"I will," she said. "They'll be discreetos."

Which reminded me of the new blended word I'd heard, Booge, so I told Emma about it.  And that, in turn, distracted me from discreetos and guess who took them to church after all?

shaking head sadly

Booge comes from Superstore (a TV show, not an actual store) and it is a combination of Ebeneezer Scrooge and Halloween.  And it describes me perfectly.

When I was buying the smallest bag I thought I could get away with candy for possible trick-or-treaters, the thought popped into my head, "Halloween is a poor excuse every October 31 to pick a man's pockets."

And, yes, that's a variation on what our friend Ebeneezer said about Christmas.

Maybe three ghosts will visit me and cause me to mend my ways, but I doubt it.  Halloween is just to be endured every year.  (And I seriously wonder about people who claim it's their favorite holiday.  You've met the other holidays, right?)

So I don't love Halloween, but I do love Emma. (despite the discreetos)

And she wanted a Halloween party.

Saturday found us preparing things she had pinned on Pinterest.  The witches' hats and brooms and the little graveyard turned out OK.

The "fingers" were sort of a fail:

One of Emma's friends said they were maybe fat toes instead of fingers.  Which is sort of nasty and I apologize.

Thanks to Adri providing the cauldron and Adam providing the dry ice, the punch bowl was even festive:

I have exactly one Halloween decoration and it is that plug in Jack-o-lantern sitting on the counter there.

Adam and I slipped away to a restaurant but I felt 100% confident the group would be fine.  There's nothing that bolsters your confidence in a gathering more than when they, on their own, pray together before eating.

They are really good girls.

Halloween's ugly and unlovable but these kids are decidedly lovable.  Even when you're a Booge.

When we came back from dinner, the girl looking on Facebook on her phone there on the couch had arrived.  I didn't know her and I asked Emma later if she was a friend or had just wandered in for the Wifi.   She is a friend.  Sometimes you just gotta Facebook, I guess.

Karhu

When Adam was a missionary, he got the nickname Karhu.  It means bear in Finnish.  I think it probably was a result of his size and maybe his bear paw-esque hands.

Perhaps it's because he's from the Northwest and likes to swim in rivers and eat salmon.

(Although Adam doesn't stand in rivers while he eats salmon.  He usually eats salmon after it's been cooked....)

Whatever the reason, that was his nickname.

I have no such nickname, but I have been known to be a little bit (or a lot) of a mama bear at times.  It hasn't always gone well.  Sometimes I'm...let's just say...hasty.

Mama bear has been on the prowl lately.  Emma, who has never had a day's trouble with a teacher in the history of ever, has been struggling a bit with a teacher.  I wasn't privy to it all along because Emma is a private/independent person and I'm a somewhat neglectful mother, especially when it comes to Emma and school.  She's got it covered and I let her.

I marched into the school the other day though, to speak with this teacher.  We had a frustrating but, I hoped, ultimately helpful discussion.

Then yesterday morning, I saw that things were not better.  And I got mad.

I wrote an email, guns blazing.  Now, I've learned from sad experience that these things always go better when I run them by Adam first.  He is calmer and wiser and, OK...more stable.

He was getting ready for work and I sat on the edge of the tub, with my laptop balanced on my legs, while he brushed his teeth at the sink.  "Will you help me with my tone in this email?" I asked.

I read it to him and he said, "That sounds aggressive."

"Well I feel aggressive," I shot back.

"OK," he said, "but you want results."

And he's right.  (Which is why I asked him.)  In these kinds of conflict who is right doesn't matter.  My righteous indignation and desire for justice needed to take a backseat to what outcome I desired.

It reminded me of one of my dad's favorite sayings, you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

So, using Adam's suggestions, I corrected my tone.  I sent a better email with words more measured. 

And guess what?  I got back a very kind and supportive email from the teacher.  I think things will improve!  Adam's way, of reacting calmly and thoughtfully, isn't just about getting what you want.  It's also about thinking about the other person and where they are coming from and how your actions will impact them if you demand vindication.  What can I say?  I married above myself.

Here's my takeaway.  Sometimes Mama Bear needs to be less of this:

And more of this:

I'm glad I have my own Karhu to learn from.

Feeling your pain

I've come to realize there is a silver lining to pain.   Empathy.  It feels good to be able to understand, really understand.  It kicks sympathy up a notch.  It feels even better to be on the receiving end of empathy.  It feels good when someone gets it.

When I told my mom I was asked to be YW president, she said, "Oh, Thelma."

Because she'd been there.  She knew it was a Big Job.

When Braeden was born, I felt terrible that I hadn't been more help to Marianne when Clarissa was born.  I felt like I should have been over at her house every day, washing her dishes or something.  I hadn't been, because I didn't know.  I didn't understand how hard new motherhood hits.

When Adam's dad passed away, I remember thinking this is what this feels like?!?  I knew lots of people who had had family members die.  I'd always felt sympathy for them, but now I knew better how it felt.

Awful.

Yesterday Adam's sweet cousin Pam took Branson to the MTC.  Branson is her handsome and quality son.  He's heading to the Virginia Chesapeake mission to hopefully be companions with Braeden.  (Both moms have their fingers crossed.)

Pam texted me yesterday after the harrowing MTC drop off.  She said, "I'm sorry I didn't do more to support you during this time."  She meant when I took Braeden.  She always knew it would be hard, now she knows what it feels like to leave your heart on a cold hard sidewalk in Provo.  (OK, maybe I'm exaggerating.  Or am I?)

Anyway, Pam and I are in a club now.  We're in the mother of missionary club.  Our hearts melt a little every time we see a missionary (which isn't that often in Utah county).  We're part of the group that text each other pictures when we do run across a missionary.

Because we get it.

Adam told Branson to make sure he had his mom's cell phone number memorized so people could text her pictures.

Mamas need pictures.

So life can be rough sometimes, but isn't it nice that we have each other?  Isn't it sublime when someone gets it?

Not my email

I wish I could include all the political email that's been bandied back and forth between my family members.  Ha!  I'm kidding (kind of).  I love my family, even the ones who think I'm going to hell in a hand basket because of my misguided political views.  (You know who you are.)

Those are my email.  

The following...are not.

In case I was wondering how to fill my time I could learn the antidote to overeating by asking Tami:

My real question to ask Tami is, "Who did you think you were sending this information to?"

In case I'm interested in learning how to manage my money, I could watch a webinar from Mentor Financial Group:

Noticing the date, I think I missed my chance for financial freedom....

This email was very sweet and I wish I could send the love and concern on to Thelma:

But, like Carolyn, I don't know Thelma Yates' email address....

This one isn't even addressed to a Thelma.  It's for Harry.  More political stuff.  

I didn't take the official survey.  I also don't live in South Carolina.

Here I got confirmation for a lottery order.

If Mrs. Thelma Newham wins the lottery, I hope they'll also send me the money.

(Then I'll regret not participating in that webinar on finances....)

I think there is a cultural gulf that I'm not crossing with this one.  I don't entirely get it.

Finally, here's another tragic one for you.  I get a lot of these.  Thelmas, unaware of the fact that they don't know their email address, set up appointments at the Genius Bar to help them with things (like not knowing their email address) but they don't get the confirmation for the appointments.

Because I do.

Parenting when they're almost grown

I don't know if it's just my kids, but in my limited sample, being a senior in high school seems to cause brain damage.

First Braeden and now Emma: at once completely capable, responsible, pleasant, aggravating, stressed and irresponsible.  It seems to be a year punctuated by unexplained tardies at school adding up and procrastination and working hard and being helpful and declining money when I offer it to them.  "No, I got this.  I don't need money."

I can only compare it to toddlers at a park.  They run away gleefully, independent and adventurous and then hurry back to their mother's side.

Autonomy can be an exhilarating but ultimately scary thing.

When Emma isn't freaking out about all the things (college applications, too much work to do, friend drama, school and social obligations) she is being perfectly enjoyable.  With our menfolk camping last weekend we went to dinner together and took a walk together and just checked in with each other several times throughout the days while we worked separately.  She and I are highly compatible.  We are two introverts, doing our thing, talking occasionally but with a look we can see when the other one needs space.

Yesterday Braeden had someone text me and ask if I would send him an absentee ballot.  He included a picture:

It's a look of silent pleading.  "Please, Mom.  I need to vote."

And of course the answer is yes, I'll figure it out.  I want that cute boy to vote too.  He also asked me to research candidates for him and tell him who I was voting for and why.  (Why is the important thing for Braeden.)  He may or may not follow my advice.  I know that.

So I sat down to research.  I already had opinions on some of the candidates but had to do some reading as I went down the ballot.  When it came to the school board candidates, I asked Emma's opinion.  And she had a strong one.  She went to a debate between the two candidates last week.  She helped as part of her AP government class.

I listened to her explain to me why one candidate was superior to the other.

I have always known I have a smart girl but I sort of marveled that she was dispensing her wisdom to me because she's more knowledgeable and experienced in this area.

Times they are a changing.

Sometimes I celebrate their independence.  I lean on them to take care of things.  I expect and value their autonomy.  Then, like the toddler at the playground, I want to run back together.  I want to take care of everything.  I want to fix the fixable and banish the unfixable.  I want to gather them in my lap and rock them to sleep.

That is particularly problematic with Braeden since he's man-sized and lives in Virginia.


 

His

Last Wednesday night I watched the Face to Face with Studio C.  It was a broadcast geared toward youth but I loved it for me too.  I laughed and cried.  (That pretty much sums up my life in one sentence.)

There's one part in particular that I keep thinking about.  One of the cast members, Whitney, has a five month old son.  She said that after he was born, someone pointed out to her how much she loved him even though he didn't do anything to deserve it.  He just was hers.  So she loved him.

Then it was pointed out to her that that is the same way Heavenly Father feels about us.  We are His.  So He loves us.  We don't do anything to deserve that love.  It's because we belong to Him.

It staggers my mind (and was part of the reason why I cried).

Last week in his email, Braeden sent this scripture that I also can't stop thinking about:

My name is Jehovah, and I know the end from the beginning; therefore my hand shall be over thee.

Abraham 2:8

God knows everything.

He is all powerful.

And He loves us.

So when it feels like things aren't going my way, remembering those three things soothes my soul a little.  It encourages me to be patient.  I'm sputtering along in this anxious and flawed state, but I'm His.

So He loves me.

And I'll be OK.

Fall Break

Two years ago, we went to Disneyland during Fall Break.  It seemed like such a perfect idea.

Except everyone in Utah also went to Disneyland.

This year, unbeknownst to me (I think I need to follow Utah on Facebook or something) everyone in Utah didn't go to Disneyland.

They went to the Mt. Timpanogos temple.  I took a vanload of kids there yesterday and I have never seen the place so busy.

We were there three hours.

After I dropped everyone back off except Mark, I was going to pick up a prescription for my increasingly stupid eye.

I got a speeding ticket.

It seemed like rotten luck but I also deserved it.

Afterward, I was driving the speed limit like a good girl and I thought, "Are you kidding me?  This is how slow I was supposed to be going all this time?"

I don't know if I can keep that up.

Mark went on a scout campout.

He refused to take a coat, so he's probably really cold but he won't die and hopefully he'll learn his lesson.

(Like me and my speeding ticket.)

Last night Vanessa stayed over because her mom is out of town.  That is the second time Mark has been at scout camp and Vanessa has stayed over.

Emma said we need to keep the ginger component balanced around here.

Today, after work, Adam is joining the scouts, Emma is keeping her nose to the grindstone with homework and college applications.

And I'm not going to get another speeding ticket.