Next Thursday, on August 4, my Big Picture Classes workshop, Write Now!, starts up again. This class is perhaps my favorite class I teach at Big Picture, and here's why:

I think all scrapbook layouts deserve some journaling. That isn't an altogether popular point of view; for plenty of scrapbookers, the journaling part is sheer, frustrating drudgery. Or something that just never gets done but then makes the guilt flare up. That's one reason I wrote the class: to help scrappers feel confident about their journaling and to enjoy the process.

But I also think that if you're going to write some journaling—or any sort of writing, really; you could easily apply the techniques in Write Now! to your blog or your private journal or that personal memoir you've always wanted to write—you might as well write it well. The cool thing is that it doesn't have to take a long time to write it well. That's why the class's subtitle is "A Speedy Journaling Workshop." It teaches you how to write well and how to do it quickly.

Also, it's my favorite class because I deep-down, to-the-tips-of-my (blistered and toenail-less) toes believe that everyone can write well. Yeah, sure: not all of us can write good novels, or poems, or short stories. Not everyone has it in themselves to be the next great and famous Writer. But we can all write about our lives and our kids' and friends' and pets' lives with authenticity and significance. It takes a combination of things: knowledge (the techniques that writers use to make their texts come alive), confidence (which comes with practice and with never getting out of the habit of practice), and desire. Write Now! will help you with the first two. The desire part has to come from you.

Here's what I mean by that. This morning, I did notwant to do my scheduled 7 mile run. My back hurt and my right foot has been having this weird, inexplicable pain. (I even had an x-ray to make sure it wasn't a stress fracture. Which it isn't.) But when Kaleb asked me why I wasn't in my running clothes, I knew I had to put them on and put in my miles anyway. After I'd finished, when I was walking up my driveway, one of my neighbors stopped to chat with me. She told me she admired me for running, and that she wasn't sure how I did it, because running is hard for her to do. Her comments added to my post-run exhilaration, but I also had to chuckle a bit, thinking about how hard it was for me just to put my shoes on and get out the door.

Writing good journaling is exactly like that. It seems like it's too hard to do and that only a few people can do it. But if you do it every day, it becomes easier. With running you learn stuff like pacing and building endurance and avoiding injuries and maintaining glycogen levels and stretching just the right amount; those things help the seemingly-hard process of running become easier. With writing, you learn stuff like sentence structure and word choice and organization, silencing your internal editor and being brave on paper and filtering out the fluff to get to the real; those things help the seemingly-magical process of writing strong journaling become easier.

Doesn't matter, honestly, if you love journaling or hate it, this class will help you. If you have the desire, everything else will start making perfect sense! And, as a happy little perk, there's a give away on Thursday, July 28 at write. click. scrapbook. for a free seat in the class. Click over and leave a comment to enter!

When my grandma Elsie died, one of the things we had to decide what to do with was her collection of paperback murder mysteries. There were literally hundreds of them, in boxes in her basement. So I should be genetically inclined to enjoy reading them, but generally I don't. I think it's the formulaic aspect: the detective, who is ____________ (brilliant, bumbling, damaged, superhumanly strong, or some other adjective, take your pick), picks up a case, figures out who did it, and moves on to the next case. The convenient piece of evidence, or the murderer's stupid mistake, or the brilliant detective's ah-ha moment solves the crime.

Written out like that, it might be hard to see why I don't like them. I mean...perhaps that's just how it really works for detectives working on murder cases.

They just aren't my thing to read.

Still, when I read a review of Rosamund Lupton's murder mystery novel, Sister, I had to read it. (I thought the review I'd read was from NPR, but actually it was at Kirkus.) Not really for the murder-mystery aspect, but for how hard this realization hit me: one day, one of my sisters will die. Or maybe I'll die first. While I know, of course, that people die, reading a review about a book about a woman trying to figure out who murdered her sister and made it look like a suicide somehow made that thought seem real. Someday three of us will live without one of us; one day only one sister out of four will be left.

Is that a crazy reason to read a book? I don't know, but it's what made me look it up on the library catalog and then do a little happy dance when I saw that it had already been ordered and was, in fact, nearly ready to check out. And no one else was waiting for it. So I got to read it first.

Sisters tells the story of Beatrice Hemming, who receives a phone call during a Sunday lunch party at her apartment in New York, telling her that her sister Tess is missing. Since Tess is sort of flighty—that artistic personality of hers—Beatrice is initially more annoyed than alarmed, but she still rushes to London to help her mother find her sister. Except there will be no rescuing Tess, who was 8 months pregnant with a child fathered by her married art tutor; her baby was stillborn and she has, apparently, committed suicide in her grief.

Except Beatrice knows her sister would never do that. Mostly she is certain because she knows her sister; part of that knowledge is that they both watched their brother die from cystic fibrosis when they were kids. Beatrice knows that that experience taught Tess that life was too valuable to waste. Unfortunately, Beatrice's knowledge about her sister is not enough to convince the detectives, who find reasons to explain away the evidence she uncovers.

Even though it is a murder mystery, it didn't feel like one—didn't feel cliched and formulaic. It was creepy and intriguing and puzzling and sometimes so gothically good it gave me chills. But even better than the spine tingles and the how-will-this-turn-out anxiety, Sisters is a beautifully written novel; it just happens to be about a murder. Beatrice, who is the oldest sister, reminded me the teensiest bit of myself, especially as she sees how her shortcomings and mistakes unfolded to create an opportunity for her sister's death. The mystery was intriguing; I didn't figure it out until Beatrice did, and the ending? I completely loved the ending, which is nothing you would ever anticipate.

But what I loved most was (as with all novels I love) the writing itself. It's written as a letter from Beatrice to Tess, a technique that allows Beatrice to tell the story of uncovering the murderer while she simultaneously writes about Tess's death and its effect on her. "Was the feeling that all is right with the world, my world," Beatrice wonders at Tess's funeral, "because you were its foundations, formed in childhood and with me grown into adulthood?" How does a person go on as the only sister left?

Which really is why I read the book in the first place. Whether the motivation was to examine the death of someone else's sister so I could have an inkling of what it would be like to lose my own, or to exorcise my fear of being the only sister left one day, I'm not sure. But it did, somehow, do both. It reminded me that I am not in Beatrice's shoes; I still have my sisters with me. And, even more than that, it reminded me to live what Tess called the sacrament of the present moment—to take nothing for granted and to live without fear, as if you are flying.

This weekend I ran 14 miles.

I haven't run more than 13.1 miles since I was 29 and training for a marathon. Now I'm 39 and training for a marathon again, and so far (knocking on wood, tossing salt over my shoulder, crossing my fingers and wondering if there's any other superstitious, supposed-to-bring-you-good-luck cliches I could rely on) I have not been derailed by ITB pain. (The amazing collection of blisters on my bunions are an entirely other story, but I refuse, refuse to be derailed by blisters.)

But seriously: 14 miles is a long time to run. And about a third the way through, I don't know what happened, but my music started bugging me, so I turned it off and ran six entire more miles without any tunes at all. I thought about all sorts of things while I ran sans music, but this list of Stuff that Bugs Me When I'm Running is just begging to be blogged about.

• Dogs. Specifically: dogs that spring up out of nowhere and start running and barking next to me, on the other side of the fence. This startles me every single time, causing me to flail my arms in surprise and look like a complete moron.
• Red lights. It doesn't matter how I try to time it, I nearly always arrive at an intersection just as the light turns red. And as I don't like to stop moving once I've started, I continue jogging in place, probably looking (again!) like a complete moron. Listen, I know that traffic lights are a necessity. But couldn't the Running Gods let me catch a break for at least half of them? What are the odds that I  always  hit the red ones?
• Construction. Lately I think about half my planned routes have been forced onto detours for construction projects. A few weeks ago I ran through one anyway because there was no other option (turning around and going back home is never an option), and seriously: my life flashed before my eyes more than once. I wish MAPMYRUN had an "avoid construction" on its mapping tools. Plus, there's the fact that in addition to the deathly stuff like giant pot holes, innumerable construction cones to avoid, and construction vehicles flinging around gravel and enormous pipes and big cement things, occassionally those construction workers shout rude comments at me.
• Hecklers. Yes, polite young man, I know I need to keep on chuggin'. What I *don't* know is how all you seemingly-unrelated hecklers know to shout such similar things?
• Trees and bushes. Specifically the ones that home owners have allowed to grow so low or wide that I have to detour around them.
• Walkers. Now, wait a second. I have nothing against people who walk for exercise. BUT! When there are more than two of them, and they're walking abreast on a fairly-crowded paved trail, they tend to take up the entire width of the trail. I wish they'd pay more attention to the people trying to pass them.
• Walkers with dogs on a leash. Or anyone  with a dogs on a leash, for that matter. Because as soon as I try to pass the dog, it always seems to chase after me, either startling me or getting tangled in my feet. I really don't want to be knocked out of my running season by someone's dog.
• Drivers who don't pay attention. (Wait! Yes, you're right: I have blogged about this before.) I think the worst ones are people turning right. I just always assume that drivers don't see me, just to be safe. Still: pay attention people!
• Sprinklers. The ones that are watering sidewalks and/or driveways. Honestly: this bugs me whenever I see it, but you do tend to notice it more when you're running through neighborhoods. There are numerous sprinklers that need to be readjusted. We do live in a desert after all.
• Sunscreen. Eleven miles seems to be the limit for sunscreen to not drip in my eyes. After that, it dissolves and starts careening down my face, right into my eyeballs. It stings.
• Exhaustion. I'm starting to get nervous, because honestly: those last two miles? I was tired. Will I really be able to build up enough endurance to run this race?

And yeah, OK: I know that this list makes me sound whiny. For all that, I really did love last week's long run, and I'm looking forward to this week's, too. Just to prove it, I'll tell you something that doesn't annoy me. In fact, I'm downright grateful for:

• Public parks with functional drinking fountains and an unlocked bathroom.

Because training schedule or no training schedule, running 14 miles with a slight-disturbed tummy probably wasn't one of my brightest ideas.

What bugs you when you exercise? Come on, you can tell me! Even (especially?) if it's something snarky.

Dear self:

When you've been running lots and lots of miles, many of them downhill, it's best to leave the toenail polish on. Even if it is chipped. Paint over the chips instead of taking it all off, because if you remove it all, you'll discover something awful:

All that running has killed half of your toenail. Middle toe, left foot.

Of course, once you see the tell-tale, off-white shade (the exact color of those skeletons some doctors have in their offices), you'll be helpless. You'll have to cut it off.

And then you'll realize that you've just devastated your daughter. You know, the daughter who's been dying to get a pedicure with you, and waiting patiently for your other dead toenail to grow back. Because who gets a pedicure with half a missing toenail? Now you'll have naked toes just begging to be painted, and those awful shocks that happen every time you accidentally bump your flayed middle toenail against something, and a disappointed/annoyed daughter.

See? None of this would have happened if you'd just left your sort-of icky toenail polish in place. Trust me: next time, just leave it on.

Love,

Me

Due to my seventh-grade science teacher, I've been to a lot of the geological wonders of the (American Western) world: the petrified forest, the Grand Canyon, Four Corners (not so much a geological wonder but a cartological wonder that proved fairly anti-climactic; your life really doesn't change in meaningful ways just because you've had four parts of your body in four different states at the same time), Shiprock, and of course Bryce Canyon. I've also toured a salt mine, examined faults along the Wasatch front, and participated in a dig for trilobyte fossils. (I still have the one I found, stored in a box under the stairs.)

But I, dear friends, have never been here, even though I've wanted to go:

 
(Yes! those are the fumes of Old Faithful behind me!)

Until Monday, when I got the tiniest taste of Yellowstone. Now I want to go back for a much longer visit. Because, you know: we didn't see any bears, so that part left me a bit disappointed. But the geological wonders were rich and amazing and gorgeous, even with the sounds of my sweet children's complaints (observing geological wonders helps even me ignore "this is boring" and "how many more geysers do we have to see?" type comments).

I'd like to write more right now but unfortunately my house is a disaster of stuff waiting to be unpacked and washed. Writing will have to wait. I'll be envisioning Yellowstone while I sort, though.

Have you ever been there? What was your favorite part?

On Thursday when I was getting my hair cut, my hair dresser (whom I love and adore and appreciate because not only does she revive my tired hair, she does so at a price that doesn't induce later let's-get-a-divorce-style arguments with my husband) had her TV on. A segment came on the Today Show with Daniel Radcliff and I desperately, desperately wanted to turn it up—but she turned it off! "I hope you don't mind," she said, smearing orange goo into another section of my hair, "but I'm just not a Harry Potter fan."

In my world that's like saying you're not a fan of chocolate, or going outside or, you know, breathing.

She went on to explain that she tried to read the books, but couldn't stop crying over this little boy being shoved into a closet with spiders and then this weird, giant, hairy man coming and kidnapping him from quite possibly the world's worst parents. "It's just all too dark!" she laughed. "I like happier books."

OK, I can understand that. Even though she was right at the spot where something goodhappens to Harry. Perhaps it's a result of all the other reading I've done that the super-early Harry trials didn't actually bother me. It's a book, so I knew that it would turn around at some point. Plus, as I've earlier (and probably more often than needed) stated, darkness doesn't bother me in a book.

So when I saw the title of this article, "A Mom's View: The Trouble with Harry Potter" I thought here we go. I assumed it was another one of those "Harry Potter is evil because bad stuff happens" rampages. I clicked on it, of course, so I could read it, get all up in arms, and blog about it. I was pleasantly surprised, though, because the writer has sensible advice, like the fact that yes, the last movie is dark so perhaps even if your seven-year-old is in love with all things Harry, you might not take him to see it in the theater. And that it's a parent's job to pay attention to what her kids are reading, not the publisher's or the writer's.

When the first Harry Potter movie came out, none of us had read any of the books. In fact, only Haley was old enough to know how to read at that point. The summer after the movie, I bought books 1-4 and read them to my kids. Then, later that fall, Haley took the books and read them all. She was in second grade and this reading feat still astounds me! When Order of the Phoenixcame out, I read it first, then passed it to her, but I didn't read it out loud to the boys. It felt too complicated and scary for a 4 and 2 year old.

I guess since he wasn't around for the excitement over the first four Potter books, Kaleb isn't really a Harry fan yet. Last night I was talking to Jake about when we'll see the movie. (Girls camp, long runs, work, Kendell's last days of class, some Big Picture deadlines, a funeral, Nathan's camp out, and other stuff are conspiring against us so we won't be able to see it until Wednesday or Thursday.) Kaleb piped up and asked if he could see it, too. "Definitely not!" I said. "It's too grown up for you." He protested a little bit, but then I pointed out the fact that he hasn't seen any of the other movies. "You wouldn't know what's happening anyway," I explained, and then I promised him: next summer I'll read the first four books out loud to him. That made him happy.

It makes me happy, too, because it means my own Harry Potter adventures—always very entwined with my kids' HP experiences—don't have to come to an end. Experiencing Hogwarts with a child makes it more magical, and I'm happy I can do it one more time. Because honestly: I almost don't want to see the last movie. Seeing it means that the Harry Potter adventures, which have impacted my life for the past decade in one form or another, are done. Absolutely I'll revisit them with Kaleb's hand in mine. But this movie is the last time it will be the first time.

I'm 100% certain my hairdresser would not understand this feeling. "It's just a book!" she'd say. But it's become a bit more than just a book. The Harry Potter thing wraps parents in its magic just as swiftly as it does children; that's part of its strengths. My kids love it and I love it, so it became a think that drew us closer. My three bigs, Haley and Jake especially, grew up along with Harry. It made all sorts of connections: to reading, to understanding and thinking about and loving story itself, to the pleasures of reading, to the discussions about good and bad and consequences and decisions. In that sense, the story must have those swathes of darkness. If it was all lightness and happiness, it wouldn't mean anything and no one would be drawn to it. I wouldn't have it any other way.

I love Greek mythology. Have I ever written that here? I'm not sure. Actually, there aren't many mythologies I don't find interesting. Arthurian legends make me tingle. I went through a long phase of learning about Native American myths after I started listening to The Cult back in tenth grade. The Celtic myths are perhaps the most fascinating to me, but they're so disjointed in their stories. Greek mythology, though: its stories are complete and complex and full of metaphor. And not just the mythologies. The heroes—Hercules and Perseus and Theseus. Sophocles dramas (Antigone is my favorite). And Homer's epics; I've read the translations of the Iliad, the Odyssey, and the Aeneid, plus countless modern interpretations.

So when, one day when I was filling the New Books shelf at work, I stumbled across Carrie Vaughn's book Discord's Apple, I could hardly resist it.  You remember the story: It wasn't really Helen that started the Trojan War, it was the three goddesses Athena, Aphrodite, and Hera, arguing over who was the fairest and thus should possess the Apple of Discord. Just the book's title grabbed my interest, but the inside copy had me at hello: Ithacans and Greek Goddesses and King Arthur and the Wandering Jew and a curandero mixed into a story about a near-future world on the brink of war? Sign me up!

Evie, the novel's protatonist, returns to her tiny Colorado home town, Hope's Fort, when she discovers her father is dying of cancer. A successful comic-book writer, Evie keeps in touch with the news of the larger world—which seems to be imploding upon itself, with countries on the brink of nuclear war—by way of Bruce, who illustrates her books. Thinking she will be taking care of her father, she instead begins to learn about the mysterious contents of her grandparents' basement. It is, in reality, a store room of ancient magical artifacts. As the modern world begins to break itself apart, the storeroom begins drawing the old mythological beings to itself, and Evie gets caught up in the resulting chaos.

This isn't the usual type of book I read. The story is intriguing but the writing is fairly straightforward. (I kept wishing that  Alden Bell would rewrite it.) It's a little bit fluffy, and the intertwined bits of Evie's comic book were sort of bleh to me. The book didn't make me want to read any more of Carrie Vaughn's oeuvre.

That said, I really enjoyed this novel. It is a perfect summer read: fast, intriguing, mysterious, plus all those mythological characters. The story is woven together; some chapters are set during the Trojan war and some in Evie's world, with bits of family history and that comic-book plot line as well. One chapter is set on Mount Olympus and another at Stonehenge. I know not everyone likes this sort of structure but it is one of my favorites as it allows for connections between histories and stories that you might otherwise miss. There are explanations of what happened to the Greek gods, where magic came from, and how mythological characters got their power. (I don't necessarily agree with the ideas, but they were intriguing nevertheless.) And the constant referencing to stories, folklore, and myths brought back many tales I'd forgotten I was fascinated by. I think, in the end, what made me love Discord's Apple was how it suggested the reality of magic and then showed how that reality might change the world.

So! If you're looking for a good beach read, and your requirements for beach reading don't include heaving bosoms, rapturous dames, and overwrought romance—but do allow you to reach back to remember the stuff you learned in your high school mythology unit—this might just be the book for you.

Happy reading!

When I was 16, I was totally not excited about driving. Most of my friends had their licenses before me, and plus: I knew what I'd be driving. The rust-brown, 1972 Ford Torino waiting for me didn't exactly inspire a rush of driverly ambition. That, combined with my insanely-complicated-by-gymnastics schedule meant I didn't take driver's ed until the summer after I turned sixteen.

One of our driver's ed assignments was to learn how to change a tire. And not just read about it in a book—we were supposed to actually change a tire. My mom gave a vague explanation of the process and then signed my form stating that I had, indeed, changed a tire. "It's not like you'll ever really need to change a tire!" she said. "I mean, look at those legs. You'll be surrounded by guys wanting to change your tire for you if you ever get a flat." (Insert all the possible things you can think of about how awful this is. I know. I'm blushing just writing about it.)

On the day I was finally ready to take the test to get my driver's license, you'll never guess what happened: I got a flat tire. And you'll never guess who stopped to help me. Not the hordes of adoring, adorable, drooling-over-my-legs boys, but my driver's ed teacher.

That, my friends, is karma.

Now that Haley is sixteen and taking driver's ed (the summer after she turned 16, ironically enough), I've decided to take a slightly different tactic than my parents did. A couple of weeks ago, she learned to change a tire.
 

(Woot! Look at those gorgeous legs!) (Driver's ed assignments have changed, or the teachers have gotten more suspicious, because now you have to provide photographic evidence of your tire-changing knowledge.) (I also learned how to change a tire, only 23 years late, in between taking pictures.)

And when we finally do figure out what car she'll drive, I promise you it will have a working gas gage, a functional odometer, and brake lights that actually, you know, light up when you press on the brakes.

I honestly haven't looked forward to teaching Haley to drive, but it hasn't been nearly as bad as I imagined. She is a careful driver and doesn't have my lead foot. We started, as is Utah tradition, in the church parking lot, driving in circles. She's since braved driving on State Street and University Avenue. Tonight I had her drive up the canyon to Vivian Park and then back home. I confess to a little bit of terror as she took the curves, but really she did a great job.

Teaching your teenager to drive is a lot like potty training a toddler; you're always afraid an accident is going to happen. It reminds you of how fallible we are, speeding around in our automobiles, and of just how easy it would be to make a mistake. It's a terrifying reminder of your own mortality. But it's not just the curves and the lane changes and the parking. It's also a reminder of how fast she is speeding into her own life, away from needing me very much. Driver's ed is teaching me just how little time I have left to influence her and urging me to do better, to make our connection stronger, to pass along the real wisdom she needs.

(It's also reminded me that my legs aren't quite as shapely as they used to be when I was 16, but that is an entirely different story.)

(I know...yet another month in which I fail to get this posted at the beginning. Ah, well. Who needs to feel like a failure over something so silly as a blog post when there are so many other things to feel like a failure over? Onward and upward!)

I'm not really sure where June went. We didn't really do anything exciting, but it seemed to whizz by! We did go to the parade in my hometown, which is sort of the official start of summer. A few details to remember:

HALEY started summer off the exact right way. On the last day of school I picked her up and, after a long tussle over her Spanish book, which her ex-best-friend swore she'd turned in but was nowhere to be found anywhere and trust me, we searched through every single Spanish book the library had, we went to the library where she checked out a massive tower of books. Reading just for fun = the best part of summer! (Well, maybe not the best part, but it made this Momma happy!)

In even bigger news, June was the month that brought driving to Haley's life. She took the test, passed with exactly 80%, and the next day I started teaching her how to drive. It's been less stressful than I expected but still feels a whole lot like potty training a toddler: you can't relax because you're always afraid an accident is going to happen.

Haley also: got a new swimsuit that totally & perfectly matches her style, went to a pool party, hung out with her best friend, and was put into the presidency for her Young Women class at church. AND! She gave a talk in sacrament meeting about getting her patriarchal blessing.

JAKE'S big excitement this month was a basketball tournament. It was a quick one, just two weeks, and as it was his first experience playing basketball it wasn't really about winning. But he had a great time! On the last day of the tournament, he had two games. It was held in Santaquin, which is 35 miles south of us, so we hung out on the southern end of our valley that Saturday. Went to breakfast at I-hop between games, survived an excruciating trip to Walmart (seriously: you know I hate Walmart, right, and that trip is exactly why. I stood in line for 28 minutes beforethe cashier started ringing me up, and there were only two people in front of me. I sent Kendell a text that said "I'm in Walmart hell!" which, when you think about it, happens every time I go there), visited Grandma Sue's kitties one last time.

He went on a scout camping trip to the geode beds and came home with some cool ones.

After much shopping and discussing of options, we found him a new suit and some new church shoes. It is good to see him going to church without his wrists and ankles visible!

NATHAN has made a special effort this month to be a good big brother to Kaleb. I imagine it's frustrating that, at 11, he has to share a room with his 6-year-old brother. Their interests are so different. (On a regular basis, I have a dream that I find a room we forgot about somewhere in our house, and then Nathan can have his own room. Hmmmmm...think this bothers me much???) But he has tried to be patient and kind. I've caught him several times sitting on my bed with Kaleb, reading to him or helping him to read a book. I so appreciate his extra effort! His is a good boy and still has a tender heart.

He's also a little bit obsessed. Nathan wants a butterfly knife BAD. He shops online at Amazon, looking at the practice ones (they're dull so you can learn how to flip them open without, you know, slicing off fingers and various other bits of flesh). I keep putting him off because I can't decide. Is this a cool, fun thing for him to learn to do, like being an expert yo-yo-er or knowing how to juggle? Or will it lead to a life of crime? I mean...why would a person need to know how to flip open a butterfly knife? Am I being too uptight about it?

This summer has given Nathan something he's never experienced before: hay fever. It hasn't been his favorite thing. Zyrtek and eye drops have helped, and it seems to be subsiding, but he's lost his status as the only kid without that fun experience!

KALEB turned 6 on June 7. We had his Grandmas Party on the 5^th(the Sunday before his birthday) so he and Kendell could celebrate together (they’re almost birthday twins). He was sad that no one was coming on his actual birthday, but two people (our family friend Steve and his cousin Ben) called to wish him a happy birthday. He told me that night when I tucked him in, "Mom! What I loved best today was the birthday phone calls! That was so fun!" We celebrated on his birthday by picking up some pizza and snowies and hanging out in the park. Plus he got a new scooter. Not even two weeks later, he scooter was stolen out of our garage. Sigh. (Whoever took it was gracious enough to leave Nathan's old and very beat-up scooter behind.)

Kaleb also got socked by hay fever. He's been taking Benadryl at night and Zyrtek in the day. His has been the worst—his nose gets so stuffy it's literally swollen. When he wakes up in the morning, he'll find me and say "Mom! I have a hayfever today!"

KENDELL finished up his astronomy class with a solid A (after starting the class claiming d be happy just getting a C). He's helped with the teach-Haley-to-drive project in a surprisingly calm manner. He also taught her how to change a tire. He's nearly finished with helping his mom clean out all of her sheds and the garage and basement; they're going to put her house up for sale soon.

Aside from Ragnar, I finally got my marathon race training going in June. I'm not sure what's stopping me, but although i've decided to run the Layton Marathon, I still haven't actually signed up for it. Mostly I think it's a lack of confidence—I'm not certain that I really can run a full marathon. But I've been training like I'm going to do it. And waiting for the magical boost of confidence that finally gets me to click on the "registration" button.

Last year, I got to meet some of the people I previously only knew through blogging (well, blogging & sdbbe-ing, but they feel fairly cohesive). Along with my sister Becky, I met up with

Apryl
Britt and
Jeanette

at my local Carl's Jr, where we let our kids play and we hung out and talked. Unfortunately I had to work that day, so I couldn't stay long, but it was still awesome. It is delightful to put a real voice to the writerly one I already know. Plus, it's like Whammo! Instant friend! because you already know so much about each other.

Oddly enough, I became really good friends with Jamie and Wendy, who are two of my closest real-life friends, because of blogging. By "closest" I don't only mean on an emotional level—I mean literally, too, as they both live less than a mile from me. But reading each others' blogs let us get to know one another in a way we probably wouldn't have otherwise.

I've met a few other bloggy friends in real life. Of course, Sophia and I have met several times. (She is my oldest Internet friend...we've been friends since before blogs!) My second-oldest Internet friend, Helena, and her husband once came to my house so we could hang out and talk about scrapbooking and folklore for her husband's dissertation. (In a strange coincidence, her husband also used to work at the library I now currently work at. Coolio!) And once I accidentally met Shaunte, whose blog I love because she's really, really snarky-funny. We bumped into each other at the movie theater and were both like, "Hey! I read your blog!" and then we went to our separate movies.

My husband and children think it's odd, this meeting of online friends. What I try to explain, and what they don't really get, is that they're not just online friends or blogging friends. They're just friends. Yeah, I happened to meet them through their blogs, but how many couples do you know who also happened to meet online? More than a few, I'd wager. Why can't friends meet the same way? I don't think it's weird. I think it's awesome, except for I do get kind of anxious beforehand. What if my blogging friend only likes me as a blogger? or what if *I* only like her as a blogger? What if, in real life, we have nothing to say?

So I was a little bit nervous last week when I drove to the mall to meet my friend Lucy. I found Lucy's blog by way of Becky's blog, because they were real-life friends before blogging. (Another it's-a-small-world connection: Lucy is friends with Kristin, who was one of my best friends in fifth grade.) I think we clicked over similar Twilight aversions and we've been great blogging and emailing friends since then. Last week, though, she was in town, and hence my drive to the mall. I had Kaleb with me, and she had Sam, and it was hot. So we took the kids to the play place at the mall and we sat and talked.

And talked, and talked, and talked! My nerves were for nothing because being with Lucy in real life is even better than hanging out online. She is kind, and funny, and sincere. Plus, she's a great listener—you know when you can tell someone is really paying attention, not just waiting for you to stop talking so she can say something? That's how Lucy is—she listens. And she asks good questions.

Our hour at the mall play place flew by. Kaleb had fun, too—in fact, he's still talking about next year, when Lucy and Sam come again, and we go to lunch with them andBen and Thomas (Becky's sons). It might even be at the Carl's Jr. where I met my other bloggy friends! (Orem's not exactly a hot spot for entertainment choices, obviously.) And I'm still thinking about serendipity and the finding of friends, and how I wished Lucy lived closer so I could bring her some ginger ale (she's sickly pregnant) and come to the hospital, bearing gifts, when her baby is born.

But, you know, it's OK. Because we still have each other's blogs, and emailing. Despite how we met, I still count her as one of my favorite friends!