Good, Old-Fashioned Fun

Living in Utah, you can't escape the pioneers. They were hard-working, industrious, righteous people who raised a dozen kids apiece while dragging their worldly belongings across the country in a handcart. Their specter is always hanging over modern families like mine, mocking us (solemnly, of course) when my kids refuse to, say, help unload the groceries from the minivan. You can almost hear them saying, shaking their heads in ethereal disgust, We crossed the Rocky Mountains on foot for THEM?

So I feel this burden to live up to our pioneer heritage. Well, not MY pioneer heritage, of course - my ancestors were pilgrims and immigrants from various European countries. But even with that stock, I've got the Puritans, and I'm guessing they would be as disgusted as the pioneers by my children's lousy work ethic and reliance on modern conveniences.

Today I assuaged my guilt by taking part in the ultimate pioneer tradition, weeding. Weeds are timeless, they are eternal, they are from the Devil himself, so you know the pioneers would want them stamped out with vigor. Ryan and I could have pulled the weeds ourselves, but we didn't want to deprive our children of the growing experience. There's not an LDS church leader in existence that doesn't have a story about how working in the yard made him into the man he is today. On the off chance that our kids can overcome their parentage and actually make something of themselves, this will be an important moment in their development. Resume-building, if you will.

There was surprisingly little complaining when I announced that it was Family Weeding Time. The boys trooped out there, put on some gardening gloves, and got to work. Well, got to work at their own pace. The sun, which had been lurking behind clouds until the very second we herded the boys outside, was beating down on us with intensity. Ryan and I have done this kind of job before, so we knew that the faster we got it done, the sooner we could get inside and cool off. Brad and Noah have devised a better theory, and it has two parts: 1)The slower they work, the more weeds will be pulled by other people, and 2)Invite friends to help. Sneaky as they may be, they're on to something with step 2. Brad had a friend over when we started weeding, and that kid pulled more weeds than all of the kids combined! Plus, and this is huge, he never once complained, ever. Wow! I didn't know kids like that existed! I'm sure it's because he wasn't at his house, being forced to do this by his mom, but still. He's going to make his ancestors proud.

If you're a long time reader of this blog, you'll know that in April of 2007, we made another attempt at kicking it old school, when we gave up our potentially-but-as-yet-not-dangerous trampoline in favor of a classic wooden swingset. (You can read the original long-winded post here.) What could be safer than a wooden swingset, crafted (from a kit) by their parents loving hands? That is what the pioneers would have made for their kids, if their kids had any free time after baling the hay and milking the cows and fishing in the crick.

Within the first 24 hours, we had one bloody nose, one breath-knocked-out, and one trip to Instacare to get his head stapled. Last year, one of the monkey bars broke while Noah was on it, a nail scraping his arm on the way down. We not-so-affectionately refer to the swingset as the death-trap, although the major injury was done to our wallet, since we paid $750 for this thing that has done nothing but fall apart. I've mentioned my theory on Pain Units; there may not ever be anything in our life that causes more ongoing Pain than this swingset.

The area we were weeding was around the woefully unused swingset. When we went out there today, this is what we found:

Is it really so hard to have good, old-fashioned fun? Shouldn't a $750 swingset, admittedly on the low-end price-wise, last at least three whole summers? This is how I know I'm not a pioneer, because a pioneer wouldn't complain about this. They'd probably pray for the crooks at Adventure Playsets and anyone who bought their products at Toys R Us. They wouldn't still be holding a grudge after 27 months of crappy-swingset ownership. What they WOULD have done, I'm convinced, is torch the thing. Now THAT'S some good, old-fashioned fun!

A Blog About Nothing

I've been needing to write a blog entry for a week now, and have found myself with nothing to write about. I haven't been doing anything interesting, nothing interesting has happened. My brain appears to have taken the summer off. The best blog fodder is when something out of the ordinary happens, or when I can think novel thoughts about ordinary stuff. It's SOOO easy to write about catastrophes, but try writing about how your swamp cooler seems to be working rather well this year. Trust me, no one wants to read that.

So here are the things that have happened recently that are too uninteresting to write about:

I got a haircut that I don't hate.

Our ant problem seems to have resolved itself, or at least the ants have gotten better at hiding.

Darcey found a cup of milk ripening in the backyard, but she didn't drink it.

I listened to one great, two mediocre, and one truly awful audiobooks.

I am neglecting my homework like a true Mudgett; however, the classes are so easy that all I need is one good effort and I'll be caught up.

The kids have a cough, but it's not the swine flu.

Is it horrible that I wish we had the swine flu just so I can have something interesting to write about? Yes, because so many people have the swine flu now that even if we get it, it'll be prosaic, done to death. We've missed the window for swine flu being cool and original - when we get it, we'll just look like attention-seeking wannabes.

I would never have pegged myself as a Drama Queen, but I know for sure I don't want to be the Boredom Queen, either. If I had to have a title, I'd want to be the Queen of Quirk, the Sovereign of the Slightly Interesting, the Amusing Yet Charming And Slightly Off-Beat Monarch. You could call me Princess Pithy for short.

It looks like I need to start manufacturing interesting experiences in the name of blog production. Maybe a road trip, or a home improvement project. If I wanted to get REALLY interesting, I would take the family camping, or start potty-training Darcey. Or both on the same weekend! Of course, I doubt I'd survive a weekend like that with my mind intact, and I don't know what the internet connection is like in the loony bin, so maybe I should take it easy on myself. I think I'll wait until my brain comes back from vacation and see if it has anything interesting to say.

A Room Of One's Own

If you want to see me get so angry that my skin melts off in a puddle of fury and my teeth grind down to stumps and my reply comes out like I'm breathing acid-laced fire, say something like this to me:

"You don't need your own room; you've got the kitchen!"

Fortunately, no one's ever been foolhardy enough to say that outright, but I've sensed that sentiment lurking beneath the surface a few times, and that was enough to make me just about belch flames at the offender.

When we bought this house, my one requirement was a room of my own. Not my own bedroom, and definitely NOT the kitchen - I wanted a room that was mine, with a door on it and a lock and places to keep things that sticky, little fingers wouldn't touch, that I didn't have to share with anybody. I imagined such a room as a combination craft room/library/place to relax. I would decorate the room to have the feel of a spa room, where you walk in and instantly breathe slower, because you are relaxing already. And at the end of the day, I could retreat there for some quality time with myself, a good book, and a bowl of ice cream.

I might as well have wished for a room full of pixie dust and thousand-dollar bills. I got the square footage, technically, but I never got the room that I wanted. I never got the Sanctuary. Over the years, my room has been, at various times, a craft room, a computer room, a toy room, a guest room, Tim's room, an office, and a tv room. Several of these themes have reappeared more than once, making this room the most versatile room in the house. But rarely has it been MY room.

Even in the moments when the room was neither playroom nor guest room, it's been hard to stake my claim. Yes, it might be called "mom's craft room" but as soon as my back is turned, the squatters move in, bringing with them their toys and legos and candy wrappers. At one point, Ryan suggested that I keep the door locked and don't let anyone in. Which would be a fine idea if the room was empty, but I don't think I'll be able to find serenity in a locked room while the kids are banging on the door. After the kids go to bed, Ryan and I finally have some time to talk without being interrupted, something that we have grown quite fond of doing (I know, crazy), so that also precludes the quality time with myself and a good book.

The room is currently Ryan's office. He needed a place to work, and it made sense for him to move into that room, since it was, by that time, only being used as a tv room and giant garbage dump. I do most of my writing/time-wasting while sitting on the couch, and when I need to escape the kids, I go into my bedroom. If I think they'll find me there, I have been known to lay down on the floor on the far side of the bed, so they won't see me. I would like to repeat, once again, that there is no dignity in motherhood. I would hide under the bed, but I don't fit.

Hiding behind my bed to escape my children is a far cry from the relaxing, inviting room that would be my Sanctuary, but I think the idea was impractical to begin with. Sure, I could have the perfectly decorated room, complete with soft Enya music in the background, and that would be very relaxing - but when would I ever, ever use it? What I should have asked for, all those years ago when we were house shopping, was a room of my own AND some alone time every day to enjoy it. Although pixie dust and thousand-dollar bills might have been more realistic.

My Latest Moral Dilemma

The Orem Owlz are a minor league baseball team that play in the Utah Valley University stadium. This is the university I attend, and which I pay handsomely every year for a parking permit. (Pay attention, that's the important part.)

The Owlz charge $4 to park in the parking lot closest to the stadium. At Saturday's game I was feeling cheap, and decided to park in the next parking lot over, which requires a university parking permit to park in. I felt guilty for not paying to park. On the other hand, by parking in the farther lot, I freed up space for someone else to park closer. Plus, I pay $80 a year to be able to park in that parking lot, regardless of what school services I'm employing. But this is $4 less that the Owlz receive - if everyone did this, they'd have to raise ticket prices or something to make up the shortage.

So that's my latest moral dilemma, which comes complete with a poll for you to vote. As always, I'd love to hear opinions in the comments section. Is it wrong to park in a non-Owlz-sanctioned parking lot when I attend an Owlz game?

The Reject

Here are some words I never thought I'd say: I know exactly how the American Idol rejects feel. You know the people I'm talking about - the auditioners that are absolutely convinced that they are the next American Idol, but turn out to be a tone-deaf spectacle only put through to the judges to appease America's need for public humiliation. It's not the humiliation I empathize with; it's the way that contestant never saw it coming, the stunned look on their face, the disbelieving shock that they, of all people, were getting turned down.

It's the hubris being shattered, the arrogant self-confidence eroding like quicksand, that I understand today.

I applied for a freelance writing job today. The job is for a company that writes how-to articles for popular websites. It doesn't pay very much per article, but I have a friend who works for them and it's turned out pretty well for her - she brings in some extra money while gaining some writing experience and gets to write on topics that she chooses. She told me that she writes one or two a night while watching tv. Surely I could do something like that, right? After all, I've written over 200 blog entries, and even if you take out the ones that are my gratuitous whining, there's still a few that are moderately well written. I do well on all of my papers at school. I could do this. If my friend can write these articles WHILE WATCHING TV - how hard could it be?

Apparently, I'll never know, because I was rejected. I sent in my application, along with my resume and two writing samples. I sent my two favorite blogs I've ever written: Public Service

and a heavily edited version of I Am That Mother. And I was completely convinced that I had this thing in the bag. I never, ever considered that I might not even be hired - I was already counting my money and deciding how to spend it. This is American Idol-level hubris if I ever saw it, and clearly, I was in need of a smackdown.

Two hours after I sent in my application, I received this reply:

Dear Emily,

Thank you for submitting your Writer application to _____ Studios. At this time, we do not have any assignments for you that fit our needs.

And that was it. I was stunned. This wasn't even in the realm of possibility in my mind. They say pride goeth before the fall, and let me add - the bigger the pride, the harder the fall. I sped through several of the stages of grief, all at the same time. Denial: Wait, did they just reject me? There must have been some mistake! Anger: But they barely even had time to look at my articles - that's not fair! Bargaining: Maybe I could ask them for another chance. Maybe I could send them some new, better articles. I could write one for free just to show them I've got what it takes. Depression: (I didn't have any comments for this part, just picture me, curled up in a ball on my bed.) Acceptance: Well, if they didn't want me, that's okay, I'll turn this into a learning opportunity and won't make the same mistake next time. Plus, I'll write a blog about it.

If nothing else, this proves that I'm not ready to write professionally. I don't have a very thick skin when it comes to my writing being criticized. It's hard not to take rejection personally, especially since they were rejecting me, personally. That's a skill that I'm going to have to develop alongside my writing skills. I listened to a writer's podcast last week that said the older and more well-read you are, the harder it is to begin writing, because you are so aware of how bad you are in the beginning, and it might stop you from writing. Young writers don't know how bad they are, and therefore they keep writing and getting better without those inhibitions.

I'm going to be okay. I'm still writing, after all, and maybe that can be my rallying point - They may not want to hire me, but they can't keep me from writing! So melodramatic, it warms my heart. At some point, I'll be able to shrug off piles of rejections; by tomorrow this will be ancient history, an amusing anecdote that I can replay during my Nobel Prize For Literature speech. But not today - today I need encouragement, consolation, and possibly some ice cream.

The Day Of (no) Rest

This might make me sound like a horrible person. I know that I feel like a horrible person when I think about this topic, so I'm hoping my guilt somehow mitigates the damage. But here's my deep, dark secret: I really dislike Sundays.

I know. For a person who considers herself to be quite religious, who reads my scriptures pretty much daily, who prays on a frequent basis, who follows the rules, and above all actually BELIEVES what I profess to believe, having a bad attitude about the one day of the week set apart for worship makes me a bad worshipper.

It's not church itself that makes the day painful. In fact, I enjoy church. I love our congregation; the people are down-to-earth, not judgmental or gossipy, they not only claim to love one another, they back it up with their actions. I feel nothing but support and encouragement from these wonderful people, even when my kid is chucking Hot Wheels cars at them during Sacrament Meeting. Okay, so that hour of church is kind of stressful, but overall I leave church with a feeling of having learned, having been uplifted, and I am ready to face the week with renewed energy and love for God and my fellowmen.

If we came home from church at, say, 8 p.m. and went right to bed, maybe I could indeed keep this great spirit about me the rest of the week. Instead, we go from heaven on earth to, well, earth. It's not hell, but it's certainly some kind of non-heavenly place. The goal, as I see it, is to have a peaceful day as a family, a day where we "rest from our labors" and spend time doing things that we might neglect during the busyness of the rest of the week.

We did pretty good today, for a while. I made grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup, a Mudgett family tradition, and the kids all played for a while. Darcey went down for a nap (hooray!) and so does Ryan. Then I hear a THWACK! followed by an animal scream. It's Noah, who had been hit with the business end of a lightsaber, and you don't need to be Obi-Wan Kenobi to know how much that hurt. I completely lost it, and when I found Zack (hiding behind the recliner) I shouted at him to go up to his room, then I threw the Star Wars toys back in the box with much vigor.

I felt horrible for yelling at him, and for throwing the toys in the box, and in general losing my temper. Was it not two hours ago in church that I was learning about patience in adversity? Where was my patience? Gone. Here was the first chance for me to put into practice what's been preached, and I blew it. I left church ready to be a new, better person, and here I am, the same old crappy person I was on Saturday.

What I'm counting on is hope, good intentions, repentance, and mercy. I truly, 100% believe that God is a merciful judge, and that He sees how badly I want to do the right thing. I have a vast amount of faith and hope that He sees that I'm trying hard, that I don't want to ruin my kids by yelling at them, that I'm attempting to honor the Sabbath even though it's hard. The God I believe in loves me and doesn't see me as a failure for losing it today, or for losing it every day. He sees me as a work in progress, and loves me no matter what.

I also have faith that one day my kids will grow up, and I won't have to be the referee of lightsaber duels anymore. I also won't get to laugh at Zack telling Noah, "Don't shoot at Jesus!" (A framed picture, not the real person.) Here's my proposed Ten Commandments of Sunday to get me through the next few years. Feel free to suggest your own commandments in the comments - these kids might need more than ten.

Ten Commandments For Sunday

1. Thou shalt not hit thy siblings.

2. Thou shalt not fight with, scream at, threaten, or taunt thy siblings. Or thy children.

3. Thou shalt not say "He started it!"

4. Thou shalt not follow thy sibling around thy house, repeating every word he says, until he hits thou in the gut. Thou deserved it.

5. Thou shalt honor thy father and thy mother, and allow them to take a nap.

6. Thou shalt not squeal like a little girl, unless thou art a little girl.

7. Thou shalt not take thy monkey business into the backyard, where all of our neighbors will know exactly how unruly thou art on the Sabbath. Thou shalt keep up appearances.

8. Thou shalt not wake the napping baby, unless thou wants to watch her as thine punishment.

9. Thou shalt think of others, and when thou asketh to make cookies, remember to take some to thy neighbors. Thou shalt visit the sick, unless they art contagious, in which case thou shalt ding-dong-ditch them with the above-mentioned cookies.

10. Thou shalt not say any of these words: Stop it, shut up, that's mine, ow!, why???, that's my seat, get off, there's nothing to eat, what's for dinner? I don't want that.

Dreams And Dead Celebrities

There's an old wives' tale that says death always comes in threes, and this week has seen the celebrity-death trifecta of Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson. I feel the worst for Farrah - Ed McMahon died days ago, so he got his moment in the spotlight, but with MJ dying within hours of Farrah, she really got hosed, publicity-wise. (In the Deseret News, MJ got the front page, plus two more pages, Farrah got a mention on A5.) I'm reflecting on the various ways to go, and which I'd prefer: succumbing to old age, long lingering illness, or sudden death at a young age.

I would imagine that either of the first two options (old age, lingering illness) would be preferable to sudden death. Sudden death would probably be the least painful way to go, but I'd run the risk of leaving without saying goodbye. Sudden death also seems so much more traumatic to the dead person's loved ones. I'd take additional personal pain to avoid giving my family additional pain when I die.

Some would say that as long as you live each day to the fullest, then you can die with no regrets. It's a great sentiment and all, but I know I'm not living each day to the fullest. Unless "the fullest" includes sitting on the couch and reading internet news stories, I think I'm missing the mark. I'm not out there doing anything bad, I'm not racking up sins on my eternal scorecard (or at least, not major ones), but I'm also not reaching, striving, accomplishing, or any of those other active verbs that would indicate I'm doing something with my time.

This point was driven home for me a few weeks ago when we saw the movie, "Up."

***Warning: Major Spoiler Alert!***

The movie starts with a montage of a happy young couple who meet, fall in love, get married, and spend their lives together. Ellie has this dream of adventure, and they make plans to go to Paradise Falls one day. But every day passes and regular life gets in the way of achieving those dreams - the money they were saving has to be used on a new roof, for example. Eventually, Ellie gets sick and Carl, realizing that they've waited too long, buys plane tickets, but it's too late - she is too sick to go, and eventually passes away. It is his regret that causes Carl to attach balloons to his house and fly away - if she couldn't get there in her life, at least her house could.

I sobbed through this entire movie. I'm sure that wasn't Pixar's intent, but Ellie's unfulfilled dreams struck me to the bone. I felt such pain for her - to have something she wanted her entire life, since she was a young child, and to not achieve it due to stupid life things, like house repairs and medical bills. They didn't magically have more money later in life, but when Carl saw that time was running out, he must have scraped the money together somehow. Why couldn't he have done that earlier? Were her dreams not as important to him, and it wasn't until she was dying that he finally clued in? Watching him suffer, alone, with his regrets kept my tears flowing.

Whether I die from old age, or after a long, lingering illness, or a sudden heart attack at 50, I don't want to die without fulfilling my dreams. If I died today, I'd know that I've spent the last 12 years doing the right thing with my time - raising my children. But I'd be sad to know that I never saw the pyramids, or helped AIDS orphans in Africa, or walked on the Great Wall of China. Or even Mount Rushmore, for pete's sake. The world is such an amazing place - I want to see all of it, experience all of the amazing things that the world has to offer.

Beyond that, I want to leave a mark. I want, to quote Gwendolyn Brooks, to "add my few grains to the sandbox of human knowledge." Or this quote, same source: "I just love to move the ball forward, even if it's only a millimeter, in the great human quest to figure it all out." I want to contribute something - I want to leave the world a better place than I found it. I feel like I have a purpose, a calling to Do Something, and I don't want to be done in this life without doing it.

I did not marry Carl. Ryan, although he was against me writing this blog for fear that I'd be too depressing, is fully supportive of me and my dreams. We had a long discussion after we saw the movie, and one of the things he said was that he doesn't have grandiose dreams like I do, so when our kids are older, he'd follow me and my dreams. So that's a "yes" to graduate school, or living in a foreign country, or whatever I come up with. Maybe even a trip to Mount Rushmore.

Until then, I'm going to focus on living today more fully. However I die, I want people to say, "The world is better for her having lived in it" or "She lived a full life" or even just "She will be missed." As long as they don't say, "She died? Bummer. Did you hear about Michael Jackson?" That would be a good way to go.