A bunch of random stuff, none of which is long enough for its own post:

• If you're of the scrapbookerly sort, or if you just like seeing photos of my kids (and who wouldn't I ask?), read my post today at WCS.
• Yesterday I was running, and when I had about two miles left I came up a hill to an intersection where there was a man down. He'd been riding his bike and a car hit him—and then fled. There were three or four people already helping him (calling 911, helping him to hold still, and one brave woman was holding a sweater on his bleeding leg), but it didn't feel right to just run by and not at least offer my help. It wasn't needed, but as I finished my run I thought about just how easily that could be me some time. More drivers than not simply don't pay attention to pedestrians and I feel like I need to try harder and harder to stay safe. I hope if I ever do get hit by a car, people will help me. But what completely undoes me is that someone would drive away after hitting someone else. Of course, you never know what you will do in a situation. But I hope that if *I* ever accidentally hit someone, I wouldn't run away.
• On Tuesday we went to see the Bourne Legacy with some friends who had free tickets. As I had only seen the first Bourne movie, I went on an espionage-movie marathon to acquaint myself with the story. Then I kept looking over my shoulder for assassins in the library. My reaction to the new movie: ehhhh. It was as if the writers got to a certain point in the story and were like, ummmmmm, we're out of ideas, so let's just introduce a previously-unheard of character to provide the requisite 25-minute improbable car chase scene and then call it good. I liked the main characters but they totally dropped the ball on the actual story. (But no assassins in the library.)
• Last night we had actual water fall from the sky. I think that is called "rain" if I am not mistaken? I cannot explain how happy it made me to have rain in my little corner of the world. I swear all the trees on the mountains were doing a happy dance. Well, in tree fashion. I hope that storm is the thing that shatters summer. I'm ready for fall.
• My neighbor brought me a spaghetti squash fresh from her garden yesterday. I cannot wait to cook it!
• Tomorrow marks the beginning of month two of my no-sugar goals. That means I have made it through all of August without a single cookie, candy, cake, or snack. ("Cookies, candies, cakes, and snacks!" is something Kendell says to tease me about my sweet tooth.) The only exception: I had a Coke at McDonald's (the brand new one they just built by the freeway) one afternoon when I messed up my order and got a combo when I didn't mean to, and I had a Sprite when we took the kids to Great China for a Friday-before-school-starts, end-of-summer hurrah. A soda came with the meal. (If I have to drink soda I would rather it not be diet as I think sugar is vastly preferable to aspartame.) I have resisted cake and cookies at work parties, the Pepsi sitting in my fridge, and even brownie samples at Costco. Next Friday I have to buy 5 dozen donuts for a church thing on Saturday morning; I'm not sure I'll be able to resist donuts all night long. We'll see.
• Today is the day I started my ____________ of wearing black. (I don't know how to fill in the blank because I'm counting as I go.) I want to see how long I can go wearing a different black shirt. When I told Haley I was doing that she said "wouldn't it be easier to just count your black shirts?" Easier, yes. But fodder for blogging? Not as much.
• My mother-in-law recently found out that she has breast cancer. I suppose that could be its own post but it's not my story to tell yet. She is trying to decide what type of surgery to have. I don't know how you make that choice. It's just three crappy things to choose from. I wish I could help her more but I don't know how yet. (As a side note: when your mother-in-law and all your sisters-in-law have been blessed with the large boobs gene, and you are the only person who hasn't, there are bound to come up many comments about how much easier life must be with my small ones. As I haven't ever had big ones, I can't comment. Except I can say this: it's not easier when you're shopping for a swimsuit. Or a bra. Or any sort of clothing that requires any cleavage. It is easier for running.)

And with that lovely image in your head, I leave you with a question: did you know there's a blue moon tonight? And do you care? (I do. I sort of have a thing for odd astronomical events.)

When I was a kid, my mother was a domestic goddess.

(me & mom on my 12th birthday)

Summer afternoons quite often found us working in the kitchen to bottle the produce she'd grown in our garden. We bottled tomatoes, green beans, apples, peaches, and salsa. She also grew plenty of zucchini and summer squash.

During the week or so of bottling tomatoes, we'd have the same thing for lunch. Mom would cut up chunks of yellow summer squash and cook it, just till it was tender, in the diced, juicy tomatoes. Then she'd sprinkle cheddar cheese on top. Eating that meal—I don't know what we called it—is one of my favorite summer memories.

Another thing Mom would make with the zucchini—the big ones that languished in the back of the garden until they were sized like small baseball bats—was grilled zucchini. Not grilled in the sense of cooked on a barbecue, but grilled like a grilled cheese sandwich.

On Sunday, I was facing some fairly severe cooking dejection as what I had planned to make for dinner—coconut chicken curry—had been shot down by not just one but two of my family members. ("Oh. My. Gosh. <insert gagging noises> that sounds disgusting." Just the thing to fuel my excitement.)

Then I saw the enormous zucchini my neighbor had left on my porch the day before. Usually with a big zucchini I'd make some zucchini bread, followed by a zucchini cake later in the week, but as I'm not eating sugar for the next six weeks, that idea was out. What can I make with that zucchini? I pondered, and there, behind the yearning for baked goods, was the memory of grilled zucchini.

I was certain it would meet with the same reaction as the coconut chicken curry had. But I also thought, Hey! I'm the mom here. And then I made it:

And with the very first buttery, vegetable-sweet, crispy bite, I was back there on those summer afternoons, eating lunch on the shady patio of my childhood. My whole life ahead of me.

The great surprise of the whole thing? Everyone loved the grilled zucchini. Well, everyone except Kaleb who refuses to allow anything resembling vegetables to enter his body. Even Kendell, who at first complained I wasn't doing it like his mom used to (wah!) liked it. Jake had his sprinkled with cayenne pepper, which probably tasted delicious. But I wanted to keep it simple and pure, like it used to be.

Grilled Zucchini

1 large zucchini
2 eggs
2 T milk
1 cup flour
1 tsp salt
freshly ground pepper to taste
butter for the griddle

Slice the zucchini into very thin rounds. Beat the eggs till frothy, then stir in the milk. Combine the flour, salt, and pepper.  While butter is melting on the griddle, dip a zucchini slice into the egg, then the flour. Cook on the buttered griddle, flipping once or twice and adding more butter as needed.

Don't be surprised if you make some new memories!

One day, one of my good friends and I were talking about the gospel. She knows some of the sordid details of my past, and on this day when we were talking, she said something to me that filled me with a peace I rarely have concerning my faith. "It must seem so strange to you, the way we try to live as LDS believers," she said, "after all those years of knowing about it but not living it." I loved that she said that first and foremost because it reminded me why we are friends: she doesn’t just not judge me, but she tries to imagine things from my perspective. But her comment also validated the reasons behind my uneasy peace with being a Mormon. It does, quite often, feel strange. I don’t say this as a criticism of the church, exactly, but as one of my truths: some of the ways that the doctrines get interpreted bother me, and that comes straight out of my history.

I don’t blog a lot about my faith. Mostly this is because of my shortcomings as a writer: it is easy to drift into sentimentality when you’re writing about spiritual things, and I don’t always know how to put what I feel into words. But it’s also because of my shortcomings with my faith itself: I assume that almost anyone reading my words is rolling their eyes over my beliefs, or there is so much back story that to get to the point of my realization is just too much, or that those who are also LDS are much stronger than I am and so wouldn’t understand my ponderings. So I mostly write about it in my journal and keep it to myself.

But after this weekend’s NBC report about Mormonism in America, I have a few things to say. I’ve been surprised at how many of my LDS friends didn’t like the report; they thought they focused too much on people who are on the fringes instead of the steady, stalwart families. I thought, however, that they included a wider ranges of perspective to give—well, a wider perspective. Because despite what Juleen Jackson (the woman whose family was on the show) said in an interview after the program, 98% of Mormons don’t function like her family. I don’t have a statistic for how many do, but I don’t believe it’s almost all of the church.

Perspective and personal history do get wrapped up in how anyone lives the gospel. Someone like Juleen Jackson, who has lived the gospel her entire life and never even drank a Coke, has a different way of looking at the world than I do. Neither perspective is wrong, but I do have an issue with those who assume that every family works like their family. In my opinion, that is where the idea of the LDS homogenization comes from: good, strong, LDS families who do everything they should (scripture reading, family prayer, family home evening, pay tithing, never missing church, support scouting whole-heartedly, fast on every fast Sunday, go to the temple every week, never drink a Coke) quite often (but not always, as my friend taught me) assume that every other Mormon family also does everything they should. But let’s just be realistic here: they don’t.

Or at least, my family fails. (Translation: I fail.) While we watched the program, Kendell and I both had moments of thinking out loud: what if our family was representing the church on national television? Our story is much different. Take, for example, our house every Sunday before church, when I find myself raising my voice and getting frustrated because once again I am arguing with one kid or another about the fact that yes, we are going to church, even though said kid hates it/thinks it’s boring/doesn’t feel like he or she belongs/doesn’t want to wear church clothes/is too tired/points out that we already went to church last week so really? again? And the thing that spurs my anger and frustration with this weekly debate is, deep down, me feeling like if I had lived the gospel better, or not had such a rough start, or been a stronger example, my kids wouldn’t feel like they do.

But there is also the truth that I am imperfect. And I know, that’s a dumb thing to say because everyone is imperfect. But I also know there are people who are much closer to perfection. I look at a family like the Jacksons on the NBC program and I think: I won’t ever have that level of perfection. My choices as well as my weaknesses, personality, and circumstances haven’t brought that sort of lifestyle to me. And if I let it, this knowledge would make me give up on living the gospel. If I believed, like Juleen Jackson, that the only good version of Mormondom is her version, there wouldn’t be any reason to try.

But I cannot believe that.

I have to believe that my very imperfect efforts are understood by the Lord. I have to believe that what other people might judge me for is seen differently by the Savior, who knows my past, my current issues, and my potential, too. I have to believe that for me it doesn’t matter what level of spirituality other families attain, just like it doesn’t matter to me if someone has a gay child or a rebellious one or even—gasp—a feminist in their midst. The only thing that matters is what we do as a family, and that we keep on trying, and that we make it to church even if I’m prickly for the first half and we’re nearly always late. I have to believe that my very imperfect version of being a Mormon in America is equally valid and not—as it sometimes feels—deeply shameful.

I confess: I still have that rebellious, questioning Amy inside of me. Sometimes I roll my eyes when I hear other members’ opinions, especially when they involve judging others. I struggle and I question and I don’t always agree. Sometimes I look at the things I feel so guilty over and realize that to most of the world they are downright silly as far as sinning goes; I go to church and try to follow Christ and I strive to also be myself, and if that isn’t enough, what is? Most of the time I am exactly like Joanna Brooks: bothered by the patriarchy. I don’t judge others by their faults but sometimes I struggle with judging them for their perfections. I listen to what is taught and sometimes I have to struggle to make it fit with what my heart tells me. Plenty of things I just simply don’t have a response for and have to, instead, have faith that I will one day understand.

But the other side of that coin, inexplicably intertwined, is the fact that I also know it is true. That is a vague statement and it’s one of the reasons I don’t blog about my faith much. "I know it is true" is based almost entirely on feeling. It is based on the strum of my soul responding to the truths (as opposed to the traditions) of the gospel: believe in Christ, live the golden rule, try to be like Christ. Help others, be loving and gentle, put aside yourself and go to work. The knowing is based on some concrete things, but mostly on the abstract, the inexplicable, the things in my heart that no one else can see. Despite my imperfections and failures and shortcomings, I still believe and I still keep trying, and that is how it feels for me, being a Mormon in America.

Leg 3: Not a Dude in a Sparkly TuTu!

(leg no1 HERE)
(leg no2 HERE)

Basic Stats:
Leg #: 35
Distance: 7 miles
Elevation gain: 336 feet
Elevation loss:  2066 feet
Time: 1 hour 3 minutes 12 seconds

The Long Story, With Photos:

It's taken me a long time and a lot of running to be able to feel this way: I love running downhill. As my third Ragnar leg (which I have been trying to write about for more than two months!) looked like this

, that's a good thing. I especially love it when you've been going uphill for awhile, and you finally reach your turn-around spot. Once they realize that the uphill is over, all of the muscles in your body (it's surprising just how many of them it takes to get you up a hill; it's definitely not just your hamstrings and glutes) quiver with relief. Your heart slows down a bit, your breathing moves away from a gasp, and your quads are happy to take over.

So I'm happy that this route, while primarily a steep and consistent downhill, includes some up, too. It starts right out as an uphill run, in fact, taking me to the very top of Guardsman Pass before plunging down into Deer Valley. Then there are three other uphill sections to conquer. I was so much better prepared for this leg this year, mostly because I knew what to expect; last year, the uphills caught me by surprise and were more than a little bit discouraging. In fact, last year I was so tired I didn't even try to run the uphills (except for the first one); I allowed myself to walk and tried to talk myself out of feeling lame.

This year, my goal was to run all of the uphills, even if I was tired. And I was tired, I realized, once I made it to the 8950-foot summit and started down.
(This is right at the start of the leg. I didn't know that the exchange was as close as it was so I was totally not ready to go. I forgot my Bloks and my headband!)

My legs were tired, and my lungs, but I still tried to push. I listened to the song "Get Down, Make Love," which Becky had reminded me of, four times in a row. (I have a theory about how naughty songs make for good running but it is a post of its own.)
(This is the first time the van stopped to talk to me; I'm shouting to Becky, asking her to get my pink headband and my Bloks for the next stop. Thanks Becky for being a slave to my Ragnar sloth!)

I went through my own little running-downhill mantra (shoulders down, relax, lean forward, your feet know what they are doing, you're not going to fall, don't be afraid, let go); I got encouragement and a Blok and a headband from my teammates. And when I hit the next two uphills, I ran them.

(a tiny little uphill which probably felt like a mountain at this point!)

Not as fast as I would like, but I still ran.

The fourth and last uphill section is pretty steep. It happens right after the van leaves the runner for an alternate route. So you're there, on your own, facing this enormous hill made steeper by the perception of exhaustion. I was determined: I'm going to keep running. I'm tired but I can conquer this hill. Someone passed me and we encouraged each other, and I put my attention on the pink shirt of the runner ahead of me, who was walking. If I can pass her I can add her to my count I kept thinking, a motivation to keep my tired legs running. I didn't want to walk.

But as I pulled up next to her, she tapped me on my shoulder, so I yanked out my headphone to hear what she had to say. "I have a favor to ask you," she said. "And it's a big one. Would you mind walking with me? Just to the top of the hill? I'm just so discouraged and tired right now, and my van is gone, and I'm totally mad because they said this was all downhill and after that Old Snow Basin Road I just can't handle another hill."

What was I going to say? Of course I walked with her.

This was her first Ragnar but my second, so I knew this was the last uphill, a piece of news she received happily. As we walked up the hill, we talked about the race and the Ragnar experience and finishing strong. She told me how she hadn't slept one wink and I told her that next time she'll be able to, and she said "there's not going to be a next time because right now I hate this race" and I joked with her that it's like having a baby and once she was running downhill again she'd forget the pain.

I didn't ask her name, but I wish I had.

We got to the top of the hill, where there was a water station and encouraging volunteers. I followed my new routine with the two waters. "Good luck," I told her. "You have so totally got this. I promise there's not one more step of uphill." I slipped my cold, wet headband back on, tossed my water cup, and started running again. My quads happily went to work, and I smiled, I smiled hard, as I ran. I let my refrain from my first run—this won't last forever—fill up my head again so I could savor instead of rushing.

On Ragnar legs, none of the mileage is marked except for the "one mile to go." Just as I got to that sign, another runner caught up to me. "Hey!" he yelled. "I finally caught up to you! You can see that sparkly skirt for miles!" I said something encouraging about it being the last mile, but he kept on with his story. "I saw you about three miles ago and I totally thought you were a guy!" (At this point my enthusiasm for the conversation started waning.) "And there was no way I was going to let a dude in a sparkly tutu beat me!"

I think my response might have sounded cold. Actually, I hope it did. "Well, I'm glad you're comfortable with beating a girl in a sparkly tutu" I said while he was still in earshot. Then I started to get all conflicted because hello: I thought I run like a girl who's trying to keep her enormous boobs from bouncing while she really needs to pee. I had no idea that translated to "dude in a sparkly tutu" to other runners. I almost got a lump in my throat.

But somehow that last uphill and the stopping to walk to help another runner also helped me. It reminded me that we all have our own races to run, and if my sparkly man stride was the thing that pulled that slightly chauvinistic runner down the hill, so be it. The race gave me what I needed, too, to get off the mountain.

As the finish line came into my view, I heard feet closing in. Someone was trying to kill me! And, you know, I didn't want them to. I didn't want to finish my last leg by being someone else's last kill. So I sprinted. I pushed as hard as I could while shouting over my shoulder "no! nononononono! You're not passing me!" and then I made it to the end, slapped the bracelet on Becky's wrist, and started laughing. Because I sounded like a moron and I'm not even sure there even was anyone behind me. Because of a guy thinking I was a dude. Because my sparkly skirt and my flying yin-and-yang tattoo and my orange shirt all made me happy. Because I had made it and finished strong and helped someone else and had enough left in my tank to sprint and yell at imaginary runners.

It was a good end to a happy race.

I love summers that include the Olympics. Even though it wrecks havoc with my sleep schedule (I stayed up until midnight or one in the morning for almost all two weeks), the Olympics makes me happy. The camaradarie! The athletic prowess! The stories & snippets & updates!

I love it.

Here are my favorite moments from the London Olympics:

Dana Vollmer winning the gold in the 100m butterfly. This was the woman whose cap came off but she still won. What I loved, though, was just how sincerely happy she looked to win, rather than one of those "of course I won" sort of faces. She was my favorite swimmer. 

The women’s synchronized diving pair winning a silver medal. Dare I confess that I had never watched synchronized diving before? I know! Watching them spin and flip together...beautifully amazing. Having done a few spins and flips back in the day, I cannot figure out how they get it together. I would’ve loved this event even if no American team had medaled, so their silver made it one of my favorite events.

Nathan Adrian winning gold by 1/100th of a second in the 100 freestyle. You know how you respond to a certain sort of face in different ways? This swimmer’s face—all beamy-smiled and open—made me love him before he even got in the water. When I watched this race I was literally jumping up and down in front of my TV yelling at him (in an encouraging tone!) to swim faster.

Oscar Pistorius’s two 400 meter runs. This is the runner from South Africa who runs on two prosthetic legs. I watched both of them with tears streaming down my face and even writing about it gives me a lump in my throat. I think I have this response because I think about Kendell a lot when I'm running. Because of his hip replacement, he can't go running with me. (And let's face it: even if he could run we would never be able to run together because he'd be much faster.) I know it bothers him and he misses being able to run and I wish I could fix it for him. I can't imagine not being able to run so quite often when I'm out running and I'm tired, the thought that Kendell would love to be able to run is one that keeps me going. It made me cry because even though it doesn't fix anything for Kendell, Pistorius's run showed that medical advancements do help some people. (I teared up again when his team ran the relay.) And then when Kirani James swapped numbers with him! (Signifying that the faster runner held the utmost respect for the slower.) This was one of my favorite moments because it showed that conceit and bravado are not the only responses a winning athlete need show.

The beam and floor exercise event finals. Almost every single gymnastics event was spoiled for me by the Internet. I tried HARD to just stay offline but sometimes at work I couldn't avoid opening up a browser and then whammo! getting hit by yet another spoiler. I knew Gabby Douglas messed up on her bars and that McKayla Maroni sat down her vault before I watched the events. (I still watched them.) But the beam and floor event finals were, somehow, saved from the effects of the Internet. I watched them right in a row (they happened on the same night), skipping whatever events happened in between (hooray for DVRs!). When Aly Raisman finished her beam routine, and the scores were going to be close, I said "she's not going to get it" and I was almost right—this was the event when the American coaches contested the score, and the US gymnast barely beat, by virtue of a tie-breaking rule, the Romanian Catalina Ponor for bronze because of it. I was happy for Aly (who, after all, didn't get a bronze in the all-around because of another tie-breaking rule) but so devastated for the Romanian. So when I watched the floor exercise, I almost didn't care that Raisman also got a gold. I mean, I was happy for her. She was my favorite gymnast anyway. Go USA! But I wanted Ponor to win a medal, too. Partly because of that lost beam bronze. But also, I confess, because she's 24 years old and seriously: that is old in gymnastics. That's like 87 in gymnastics years. Plus her leotard was the prettiest.

Any track event run by Allyson Felix. Not only was she fun to watch, she seems so gracious. The two runners who gloated about beating Lolo Jones in the 100m didn't make me like them—at all. But Felix seemed so kind about winning. So un-braggy, even though she put in the work to win. That, to me, is what makes a great athlete: graciousness.

No, really. Whether you win or lose, I think you should do it with grace. Compare, for example, McKayla Maroni's lack of grace when she won the silver medal for vault with Morgan Uceny's agony when she tripped during the 1500m final. Maroni's refusal to shake the hand of one of her competitors and then her "not impressed" face did not impress me. Certainly she should have done better and will probably have dreams about that vault for the rest of her life. But the way she acted when she lost made it feel like it was someone else's fault, somehow. When Uceny fell during her race, she abandoned herself to despair with a fulness of purpose that doubled my own tears for her. (What can I say: I tend to cry a lot when I watch stuff.) She pounded on the track and wept and you could tell it wasn't out of disappointment for "only" getting a silver. It was sheer, unadulterated grief that felt sincere instead of whiny. The tumble meant that she didn't get the chance to show the world what she could do, but her reaction to it showed the depth of her dedication.

Equally bitter was the Chinese hurdler Liu Xiang's grief. He was favored to win the 110m hurdles during the Beijing Olympics but an Achilles injury stopped him. This Olympics that same injury came back to haunt him, and he fell by hitting the very first hurdle. Then he hopped---he hopped!---the length of the race where he stopped to kiss the last hurdle, and then other athletes came to help him. This, in fact, might have been the most moving moment for me of the entire Olympics, both because of his courage and because of those other athletes helping him. 

Which really sums up the entire Olympics experience from my perspective: I like it when underdogs win. I like to watch the stories behind the athletes. I like seeing people be rewarded for their hard work. But of all possible athletic prowess, from speed to agility to strength to skill, the one that impresses me most is graciousness, win or lose.

Which were your favorite Olympic moments?

Whenever I tell anyone that I teach online scrapbooking classes, the response is certain to fall into one of two camps:

1. The "that's cool" response: "how fun!" or "I bet you love that" or "it's awesome you can do something you love" or even "how do I sign up?"
2. The "people actually pay for that response: "uhhhhhhh" or "that's really weird" or <insert confused face> or, yes, even "people actually pay for that?"

(Obviously the first response is my favorite.)

I think I sometimes forget that the scrapbooking world really is its own little universe, complete with stars and unique systems.  There are webcasts and videos and chat rooms and message boards and e-books; there is even rumored to be a slam blog for mocking scrapbookers of the celebrity sort (I haven't actually seen it). (Yes, there are also scrapbook celebrities.) Online classes have started becoming more popular and commonplace as magazines (Making Memories, BH&G, and my beloved Simple Scrapbooks) have ceased publication.

I can't imagine that online courses are unique to the scrapbooking world. Whether or not that's true, though, and despite its potential for weirdness, an online scrapbooking class is just really fun. Big Picture Classes, while not the only source for classes, is of course my favorite. You learn stuff about your hobby and you meet other scrapbookers (online, of course...but aren't we past that stigma yet?), you get inspired. Being a wordie, I've chosen to focus all of my classes on journaling and words, but you can take a course on almost anything you can imagine.

Enter the Big Idea Festival.

This is something we've done at Big Picture Classes for a long time—a free course. One summer we focused on a layout and a project made with the same supplies by 12 different teachers, so you could be inspired to use products in a bunch of different ways. One summer we focused on color. Last year we focused on words, which of course I loved, but I think I'm most excited for this year's class.

For 2012, each teacher (seven you can see on the website and seven who are mysteries!) focused on a big idea. Some thought, process, philosophy, experience, idea, or project that is important to her right now. Notice I didn't say anything specific about scrapbooking—these big ideas don't necessarily focus on photos or words or pretty pink embellishments, although some of them do. (Mine has almost nothing to do with my favorite hobby, in fact!)

Which makes this the perfect class for you to sign up for if you're in response group#2 when it comes to online courses. It's the perfect chance to see what they're like because A---it's free! and B---you don't even have to love scrapbooking to love the ideas you'll come away with.

Sign up for it here! If nothing else, it's your chance to see me on video, which I know is an experience you've been dying to have!

I felt like my soul had road rash.

Between the mean thing one of my kids said and the unappreciative drama another one was handing out was me, trying to keep my cool and completely failing. It was the financial pain of paying more than $500 in school fees today and still staring down paying yearbooks and school lunch and a trip to Target for school supplies and oh yeah: one kid still needs a new backpack and another needs a rucksack and a third really wants a new bag but doesn’t really need one and I haven’t even bought new socks and underwear for anyone yet. It didn’t help that my knee was feeling twingy and weird this morning so I skipped my run. Plus the never-abating fact that when you have three teenagers there is always someone mad at you and I didn’t handle anything well at all; I let anxiety crowd out my ability to stay cheerful or relaxed and I snapped far too often which really feels worse than the mean thing that one kid said.

Maybe not so much road rash as burned to a crisp.

So I asked my husband to help me feel better, but you know how that goes, right? He tried. He tried to make me laugh. He gave me a hug and patted my shoulder and listened to me complain awhile but what I really wanted was for him to say "go take a long bath and I’ll deal with reality" but do husbands really do that?

So I was still stinging.

But then Fate or the Universe or Someone intervened by bringing me to a calm, quite hour of talking to a friend. The kind of friend who you can talk to without having to tell all the back stories first because she already knows them and who will forgive you for telling the same story twice and who isn’t stingy with her own stories, so I felt like I was both listening and being listened to, and somewhere in the dark in my van while we talked and laughed and maybe I got a little teary the burns received a balm; my soul was bandaged and I could come home free of my previous ache.

Isn’t friendship a blessing?

I have a little app on my computer screen that rotates randomly through my pictures. I love it because it reminds me of photos I've forgotten; sometimes something will pop up and take me right back to a favorite day or memorable experience. A few weeks ago, this photo
popped up and then I decided that I needed to get that day at Lagoon (an amusement park here in Utah) in 2007 scrapbooked for everyone, even though Kaleb's cherubic face was what inspired me.

I worked on Nathan's layout first, and the results

are what I put in this month's WCS gallery. I've since finished one Lagoon 2007 layout for Kaleb and Haley; Jake's is nearly finished.

I don't always make a layout of every event for every one of my kids. I do for holidays, of course. I try to make at least one layout per kid for each vacation we take (more about that HERE), but honestly: in my heart I know I could never scrapbook everything. Nor would I necessarily want to. I already have a slight sense of worry...I spend a lot of time scrapbooking, and have filled up a lot of albums, and partly I do it because of a need that *I* have to know more about my past than I do. But maybe (probably, in fact), my kids might not have this same need. Maybe they won't care about that day at Lagoon, or they might remember something entirely different than what I wrote. (Which actually would be even better.) Maybe when I die they'll all be like, "Oh, crap, why did mom make all these?"

"Why" is probably a good question. Why document one day four different ways? For me, it isn't ever about the scrapbooking products but the words. Because I sometimes find that there are four really good stories to tell. Or because I have four different perspectives about what happened. Or because I want each of my four favorite kids to remember the good moments. And maybe, also, for myself: so I can feel like one more little piece of what they couldn't know about me (because each layout, regardless of its subject, is really also about its maker) becomes knowable.

I've been thinking about the whys behind my life quite a bit lately. Why do I persist in running? Why do I love my job, and is that enough to balance the options a different choice might present? Why do I always buy the black one? Why haven't I been inspired to take many photos lately? Why do I still love scrapbooking, 15-or-so years later? Maybe it's a product of that recent 40th birthday. I want to live purposefully and not waste any time. I want all the questions to have good answers. And scrapbooking isn't exempt from that.

What about you—if you have more than one kid, how do you handle scrapping events for both of them?

***Includes a spoiler about the uneven bars individual final***

As soon as the Summer Olympics start, I start having gymnastics dreams. Usually they're frustrating, like the one I had last night when I'd decided I needed to back but I was arguing with Kendell over how much it would cost. Sometimes, however, they are simple and pure, uncluttered by the realities of my life right now or even my life back then. In the best dreams I am just tumbling, or sprinting without fear toward the vault, or sticking, with effortless ease, my back handspring layout on the beam.

Spinning giant after giant on the uneven bars.

(My dad, who took these photos, had the knack for clicking the shutter either just before I was at the top or just after. I still am grateful to have them though!)

Bars was my favorite event. It was the only event that I could completely trust my coach. Even though Jack was mean, I could see through it; I knew he was mean with a purpose. Even better, I knew he cared about me and wanted me to succeed even though I wasn't the youngest nor the richest girl on the team. I trusted him and learned from him and I swear: even though my hands were always ripped to shreds and bloody, and even though I got frustrated and I messed up and I gave myself bruises from hitting things wrong—I loved every single second of my bars rotation.

I thought about that tonight as I watched the individual finals of the uneven bars. "Let's just watch the American," Kendell kept saying, but I wouldn't let him click past anyone. Even though MSN had spoiled yet another event for me, I wanted to watch. I wanted to thrill at every release move and clench my fist at every landing; I wanted to live vicariously every giant.

There are dreams that take you back. Watching the sport does just a little bit, too. Of course, I was never as good as Olympic gymnasts. If I had stuck it out and not quit at 16, I probably could have earned a college scholarship somewhere mediocre. I never would've been great. But watching the Olympians brings it back so clearly. The way it felt to chalk up before your bars, the anticipation of waiting for your turn to go. Saluting the judge and then those moments of flying, spinning, twirling: defying gravity with pointed toes.

Then I went into my closet and I cried. Not because America didn't win. Not because of Beth Tweddle winning her bronze (I was so happy for her). But because I miss it. I'm old and I wasn't very good but I miss the flying. I miss being filled with confidence that I could do something amazing. I miss strapping on my grips, chalking up, and starting to spin.

I miss it.