Ironies

I just taught a class at Stake Women's Conference about what a good idea it is to cook things from scratch. But before and after said class I have eaten more fast food and ready-made food than I have for a while.

Because I've always admired and looked up to the people I've seen teach such classes, I tried to pretend I was the goddess of home cooking. I came home to my filthy house, put the food away, folded 1/4 a load of laundry, and went to Schlotszky's for dinner. I brought home the food to an empty house and cried for myself for no good reason.

I am growing a baby in my abdomen, but I'm the one acting like a (colicky) baby. I sleep all the time, I'm totally picky about what I eat, and I'm crabby and clumsy.

There's a giant gash on my forehead where the crock pot lid dropped from the top of the cabinet. I was getting it down to use for my fabulous cooking class. Cried and cried pitifully after that one too—not because it hurt so much, but because it felt like the icing on the cake inscribed "You're a Faker!"

I Want to Be Her

This is probably my all-time favorite children's book: The Seven Silly Eaters by Mary Ann Hoberman, illustrated by Marla Frazee. I love it on so many levels. I love the cadence and humor of the poetry, I love the family life the illustrations describe. I love the momma with short curly hair and sneakers who plays her cello amidst the chaos of her kids. I want to be her, or be her best friend.

I love it that nearly every picture includes laundry piles and stacks of books and homemade food. I love it that the kids love their mother, and try to clumsily show it. I love it that when the kids make a giant mess and leave it, the pets lick it all clean by morning, and that mess yields a great surprise for all. I love the round-faced, personality-filled children. I love their old house on the lake with the kids all crammed in one bedroom on the landing. I love the woodsy bearded papa who is always trying to help the momma, who is often beyond help.

I don't really know why the book and the illustrated life the family leads entices and delights me so much. But I think about it often, even when I'm not reading it, the same way I often think of If You Give a Mouse a Cookie (another book I relate to all too well). The momma is usually ready to tear her hair out, but I still want to be her or know her. Not because I want seven kids (heavens!), or am willing to be a short order cook for the kids I do have. But I do have curly hair, I bake bread, I have strong-willed, energetic, picky children, and I want to play the cello someday.

Maybe I like it because it gives me hope that somehow, someday, all the chaos and failings that make up my life as a mother and wife might just all turn into a pink and plump and perfect cake.

Lost Clothes Postscript

Wonderful Katie was nice to point out that most of the clothes we lost were due for replacement anyway, and then picked out a new wardrobe for me! She has superpowers I will never have, inherited from her mama whom I miss—so glad I get to be related to her and mooch.

I also remembered a past tragic/lucky event that makes me feel a little sheepish (again) about my complaining. While traveling in the USA during Christmas 2007, Delta Airlines lost one of our suitcases, full of kids' clothes, winter gear, Christmas toys, and 20 children's books my mom had recorded herself reading for the kids. I was devastated over the lost stuff, especially the books and Christmas presents, and submitted a very detailed insurance claim to the airline. They paid up a hefty sum of cash, and then the suitcase showed up at our doorstep four months later (I wish I'd had a video camera attached to it).

We didn't have to give the money back, and I hadn't replaced much of the stuff, since we either didn't need it or couldn't find it in India. So now I guess that free money from the airline makes my recent lost clothes incident moot.

Excuse me, I gotta go shopping.

Woke Up to Rain

I woke up to rain outside my window. Gentle, cleansing rain.

And I felt bad for my post yesterday, for my bad attitude, for how quickly I forget the blessing that our vacation was.

My mother (with the help of my sister and brother and their spouses) cared for my kids for NINE DAYS while Rich and I went backpacking around Panama without a care in the world. I hardly missed them because I knew they were safe. She sewed patches on their pants and Isaac's scout uniform, read them stacks of books, organized my junk drawer and medicine cabinet, nursed their eye and ear infections, did art and educational projects with them, hemmed curtains, endured their picky eating, took them to the park and the Children's Museum, volunteered in their classrooms, and rode with them to school on bikes.

I get home, and all I can see is that everything in my house seems broken (piano, fridge, dishwasher, printer), the kids still don't listen to me or pick up after themselves, and that I lost my clothes.

Never mind that I just spent days on beaches, hiked in jungly mountains, snuggled in buses with my true love, read three books, and spent a whole day at the Panama City Temple. We slept in almost every morning, played cards, watched three movies, went fishing and snorkeling, and took pictures of hermit crabs. We chatted with fellow travelers and children, talked about wild and crazy dreams, went dancing at a Uruguayan dance club, and saw the amazing Panama Canal locks in action. One night we walked until we got tired on the Amador Causeway, with ocean on either side. We ate at least 20 meals that I didn't have to cook.

And on a drizzly afternoon, while riding on a bus through a mountain town called Nube (Cloud), we snapped a photo of a gorgeous rainbow.

Ingrate.

So, I'll try to be like Noah. The rain and the rainbow in my fuzzy photo now remind me that there are more chances, more days to do better.

I'm sorry, World. I'll try to be more grateful today, try to share the Love more with everyone.

Out With the Trash

Calamity. After a long, beautiful, relaxing vacation in Panama for our 10-year anniversary, we unpacked our big backpack. I took out the dirty clothes, carefully separated in a kitchen garbage bag, put them on the table in the garage by the washing machine, and then got distracted by something. That is the last I saw of that bag, and trash day was yesterday.

I hope the landfill enjoys our swimming suits, underwear, favorite T-shirts, pants, and Sunday clothes. I'm now drowning my sorrows in online shopping (actually, filling online shopping carts, but never actually checking out).

This all reminds me of when we moved to Austin just after we got married, and Mom loaned me all of her parenting books, which I stuffed into a garbage bag and never saw again. Same thing happened with a bag full of puppets Mom sent with Jeremy to me from Utah. I still wonder if those books might have made us better parents (or worse??), or if the puppets could have made my children happier.

You'd think I'd have at least learned from my past garbage bag tragedies to stop putting important things in garbage bags. Sigh.

It's just stuff, right?