1.  You know how some blogs have that security thing where you have to type in a non-word combination of letters before you can post your comment? Some of those non-words should be words, don't you think? Like, just now when I left my suggestion for what Janssen should read (Cat's Eye, of course!), the security "word" was ademendent. That should mean something, don't you think?

2. My running mojo has left me. Vanished. Run away. I have zero desire to put on my running bra, dig through the summer-running clothes still at the top of my running-clothes drawer to find winter running clothes, lace up my shoes, and get my (ever-expanding) butt out on the road. It is a combination of dis-couragement (those 49 seconds, not to mention it seems like everyone but me is running this year's Ragnar, putting paid to the fact that I am a great big—and getting bigger, wheeeee!—loser) and insecurity (am I selfish to run so much? does it make me a neglectful mother? what's the personality defect that makes it so I don't want to run if I'm not training for a race?), sheer overwhelmed-by-life (the surgery, and then the holidays) and sheer laziness (just let me get MORE SLEEP). Gah. I'm starting to get fat again but I still can't seem to start my running engine.

3. So many books, so little time: The new Kostova one, and re-reading Till We Have Faces, and The Lovely Bones waiting for me, as is Kingsolver's Lacuna and a whole bunch of poetry books and Oh, I'm only 1.5 essays through the 2009 BAE. Occasionally I joke with my children: I need about six months in jail, but only if they prison library is a good one. ;)

4. I miss my dad.

5.  When my niece Jacqui got married two weeks ago, I had a lovely little meltdown at home (after the wedding and luckily only in the presence of my husband and kids...which is bad enough, but at least I didn't ruin the actual wedding with my histronics). There've been too many weddings recently, and all that hopeful optimism just sent me over the edge. Remember how that felt, when you first got married, and everything was still in front of you, and you were certain it would all be wonderful simply by bent of you expecting it to be wonderful? That was maybe what I was grieving for, post-wedding-meltdown: the loss of that feeling.

6. My baby-gender radar seems to have been broken. Probably it was my brother-in-law's scepticism. I used to always be able to tell what kind of baby someone was having...but not so much, lately. My two nieces who are both expecting? Got them BOTH wrong! What happened?

7. Final note: divorce is really, really ugly. (I am not getting divorced.) I have never, until the last few months, witnessed one up close and personal. Ugly, and raw, and full of unexpected explosions. Your own little war, an amputation of sorts. Ugly. 

Back when we were building our house, one of the pieces of advice I managed to implement came from my mom: You want lots of closets and storage space. We did build several closets and other spots for storage, and I am grateful to have them...even though they often are a complete mess. For some unknown reason, I got a wild hair this afternoon to clean out my linen closet—really clean it: take everything out, scrub the shelves and the walls, vacuum the corners, throw away and donate and reorganize all the stuff in there. I've straightened it up every year or so, but the last time I completely cleaned it, Haley was two (I know because we went to Hawaii right after her birthday, and I had an enormous bruise on each of my thighs that I got when I fell while cleaning out this same closet, and it sort of bugged, being at the beach in paradise with two ugly thighs) so it was almost a complete mystery what exactly I would find.

Closets are strange spaces: the place you put stuff you don't really need but can't get rid of. They are a three-dimensional catalog of what-might-have-been, of things-I-wished-for and dreams-I-put-away. From the linen closet shelves I pulled

• the baby quilt I almost finished before I had Haley, which I put away thinking "I will just finish this for my next daughter"
• the drapes my mom sewed for my kitchen which are 2" too short
• the baby monitor
• assorted scraps from finished sewing projects
• assorted lengths of fabric from not-yet-begun sewing projects (most for babies who are now in elementary school)
• seven (7!) rolls of white thread
• a counted cross stitch I started working on while I was pregnant with Haley, roughly 1/3 finished
• two copies of a family history sketch about one of Kendell's ancestors
• twelve (12) empty picture frames
• the tapa cloth we bought on that long-ago trip to Hawaii, which we intended on framing and hanging
• the overflowing box of boy jeans, which I am saving to make denim quilts with as a leaving-home gift (Haley's are in her closet)
• in that box of jeans, the tiny pair that was worn by all four of the kids as babies
• three (3) extension cords
• seven (7) packages of Command Adhesive hooks (Kendell has nail-hole issues)
• leftover bits of Halloween costumes, including the beaded ribbon I used on Haley's hippy costume when she was ten
• seventeen (17) pillowcases for which the matching sheets are long worn out and gone
• my Grandma Amy quilt (which is what I set out to blog about but will have to happen another day)

Probably what sent me on my cleaning frenzy was frustration. I expected that having teenagers would be hard, but I didn't know it would feel like this: junior high all over again, only worse because the snotty girl rejecting your proffered kindness isn't that popular cheerleader but your very own daughter. As I pulled items off shelves and threw junk away with satisfying thwonks into the garbage can, I thought about the arrogance of the assumptions I have built my adult life upon. I assumed that previous sacrifices would mean I wouldn't have to make anymore. I assumed that because I wanted to have a great relationship with my kids, I would. I assumed that because I wish my grandma had kept a journal, someone would be interested in mine.

I assumed that one day, after I am gone, someone would read my closet and be grateful for the knowledge they could glean from a pile of junk.

When Kendell came home, it was to this pleasant site:

Not pictured: me climbing up and down on that stool very carefully, because I still remember the bruises from the last time and because I was crying. Not over the items in the closet, or because of the mess I'd made of the hall, but because of the mess I've made of my relationship with Haley. I'm not sure when it went off track—when I went from the mom she loved to talk to to the one whose very presence in a room is grounds for deep sighs, rolled eyes, and a sharp voice. When I realized: we are standing in the same room but I miss her. "It's just normal teenage stuff," Kendell told me, trying to talk me down from the ledge. And of course, he's right. I should focus on all the positive stuff (the good grades, the determination, the creativity and the insanely-beautiful singing) and just let go of this ache.

Let go of the assumptions: because I was determined not to make the same mistakes my mom made, I wouldn't make my very own. Because I was certain to give my daughter the things I had needed when I was a teenager, she would continue to want to talk to me. Because I desperately and earnestly wanted a great relationship with her, because I am willing to do all that I can, our relationship would be great. Because I had imagined us remaining great friends once she had grown up, of course we would become great friends once she had grown up.

Tonight those assumptions feel arrogant. They feel severely embarrassing. (Like, again, junior high: you assume your friends have your back, but really they're behind you so they can make fun of the stain you have on your butt.) They are built on me feeling, without questioning, that she would want to have me in her life. That merely by virtue of the fact that she came from my body, she would feel a connection to me. I didn't realize that flesh-of-my-flesh thing wouldn't be enough.

I managed to reorganize the closet. I have an enormous box of stuff to donate, and the shelves are tidy, with enough room for my sewing machine, my sewing stuff, and the box of pretty-spot items. What is left, twined around the detritus of a decade's-worth of closet accumulation is this desire I have, despite realizing the arrogance of it: I still want her to know that I love her. I still want to be the person she tells things to. I still want her to love me back, as pathetic as that sounds. How do I box it up and put it on the closet shelf along with the rest of the things I can't seem to get rid of?

My personal history is full of a tradition: women who live the gospel.

I grew up with three sisters and no brothers; my dad---probably in a bid to escape the estrogen---wasn't very involved in our lives. That doesn't mean exactly what it sounds like. He came to our gymnastics meets and our dance recitals, he took us to the library, he gave us summers on the lake and the ability to waterski. But he wasn't a person who strived to teach his daughters things like how to throw a baseball, thread a worm on a fishing hook or even mow the lawn. Masculine stuff was kept hidden from us. This really was a detriment to me, as it meant boys were complete mysteries, alien creatures; their very otherness made them more intriguing to me as a teenager but also much more difficult to comprehend or understand or even hold many intelligent conversations with.

Before I had Jacob, the girl tradition continued: aside from one lost boy, we had girls. This is simply how we did things and I didn't think I would be any different. When I—and then Becky—started having boys, it was delightful, but also strange and terrifying. What did I, bathed in all things girly my entire life, know about raising boys? Mostly it has been a learn-as-you-go thing, and I have made many mistakes. Honestly, sometimes I have wondered: are You SURE you trust me with these boys, God? Because that is the most terrifying part, making sure I am teaching my sons how to become good men who will live the gospel.

In the LDS church, when boys turn twelve, they become deacons and receive the Aaronic Priesthood. As Jake turned twelve at the end of December, he got to receive this blessing. He kept asking me questions: what happens? how do I receive the priesthood? is it scary? And honestly, those questions were hard for me to answer—coming from my women-dominated past. I didn't have brothers. I didn't have a dad who really was an example of living the priesthood. And since Jake is our oldest son, this has been another thing I am learning as I go...learning along with him.

It is hard for me to share how the past month has affected me, experiencing this new thing with Jake. It has brought us closer and given the opportunity for many great discussions. It has opened my heart up in a way I have never felt before and cannot, yet, truly put into words, except for one (that doesn't really do it justice): hope. Sometimes I feel as if all the generations are on my shoulders—on one are the past generations, the people who came before me and for good and bad continue to influence me, and on the other are the people who are yet to come and who I, for good and bad, influence by how I raise my children, what I teach them and the traditions I establish. Generally this feeling is a weight and a discouragement, as I feel I am certain to fail, and that by failing I will disappoint my ancestors and ruin the opportunities of my descendents. But over the past month, that feeling of being a failure has lifted a bit. I have watched Jacob be changed by the spirit and by his experiences, a subtle and yet real change, and it has encouraged me maybe as much as it has affected him. That is what I mean by saying the word to describe it is hope: I can see a future in which the women-only traditions of our family will change. Men will also live the gospel. For the first time in many generations, we will send out missionaries.

Part of the responsibilities of a deacon is passing the sacrament to the congregation. Today was the first day that Jacob got to participate in that. As Mormons, we take the sacrament every Sunday to help us think of Christ and to remind ourselves of the promises we made when we were baptized. Honestly, I have grown a little bit lax in really paying attention to this part of Sunday; it's become just something else I struggle to keep the kids quiet through. But watching Jacob—proud and nervous in his new white shirt—pass the bread and the water made me remember. It brought a new understanding and a joy to the experience. I counted up the years: as the mother of three boys, I will be blessed with more than a decade of having one son or another—and, for awhile, two—pass the sacrament. I imagined myself on a future date, the first time I go to church when Kaleb is grown and off on his own adventures, and I no longer have a son there with me. I thought to myself: I shouldn't waste any Sundays until then. I should feel this reverence and appreciation for the sacrament—the feeling brought by Jake being a deacon—every time.

I don't really know why I am posting this. Unlike other Mormon bloggers I know, I have a hard time writing about my faith. Part of it has to do with logistics—I cannot assume everyone believes as I do, so I feel I must explain. The larger part has to do with not knowing, exactly, what I really should share with the world at large, and what I should keep close to me. But somehow it felt important today that I not just write this down, but that I blog about it: the ancestors and the descendents on my shoulders aren't only women. They are men, too, and Jacob's experiences are just a beginning. This is wrapped up in the past and the future, in all our equally-loved daughters, in that one lost son and in the three still with me. I feel a sense of promise, a miraculous sense of God's trust in me, that maybe I can be an influence for good for my sons. And I am reminded: being a mother isn't only about teaching our children. It is also about learning from and along with them. If I can only continue to learn and grow, it might all turn out alright in the end.

I am in the middle of intense, intense Big Picture class preparation. My scrapping desk is overflowing with snippets and scraps, my brain burgeoning with ideas. The class is finally coming together and I am loving it.

But my blog is suffering.

I've got a nice little slew of posts...all in my brain. Some 2009 stuff I wanted to share, even though it's getting too late to write "best of last year" posts. Still, in the spirit of trying to keep even a modicum of updatedness on my blog, I'm doing this quick post. My favorite poem from 2009.

I read this in the 2008 Best American Poetry Anthology. When it comes to poems, I read a lot of anthologies, because they introduce me to so many different poets and writing styles and poems. The Best American series is especially good,  relevant since it collects the editor's choice of the best poems from the previous year. (Thus...I am now also reading the 2009 edition, but I haven't found my favorite yet.)

This poem is just so good. Especially the last lines, which hit me right in the gut. Forgiveness, and consequences, and the way some things seem to trail you all your life despite forgiveness, are ideas I have pondered often this year, and in that sense this is a thematic poem for my life in 2009. It continues to haunt me, although I should warn you: it does have the F word. Hope you'll love me anyway:

No Forgiveness Ode
    ~Dean Young

The husband wants to be taken back
into the family after behaving terribly,
but nothing can be taken back,
not the leaves by the trees, the rain
by the clouds. You want to take back
the ugly thing you said, but some shrapnel
remains in the wound, some mud.
Night after night Tybalt's stabbed
so the lovers are ground in mechanical
aftermath. Think of the gunk that never
comes off the roasting pan, the goofs
of a diamond cutter. But wasn't it
electricity's blunder into inert clay
that started this whole mess, the I-
echo in the head, a marriage begun
with a fender bender, a sneeze,
a mutation, a raid, an irrevocable
fuckup. So in the meantime: epoxy,
the dog barking at who knows what,
signals mixed up like a dumped-out tray
of printer's type. Some piece of you
stays in me and I'll never give it back.
The heart hoards its thorns
just as the rose profligates.
Just because you've had enough
doesn't mean you wanted too much.

(originally printed in The Paris Review)

When I was in eighth grade, my mother went back to work full time. Before that, she had been mostly a stay at home mom, but that year my dad was laid off from his job at a steel mill (a calamitous event with ripples that continue to affect him and, in odd ways, me) and my mom found a job as a receptionist at a life insurance firm.

This left my dad at home in the mornings, responsible for getting us to school. For who-knows-how-many days and days and days, I was late to school. Every. single. morning. By ten or fifteen minutes. I'd show up to my pre-algebra class, note in hand---the note I wrote and that Dad signed before I got out of the car---and then slink to my seat, face flushed with embarrassment. One day, when I again walked in late, the teacher groaned loudly, shook his head, and said "aren't you ever going to come to school on time?"

I don't think there's a name for the color of scarlet I blushed.

I thought of that experience this morning. I had raced to get my kids to school, almost-late as usual. I am not as bad as my dad was, but only by the skin of my teeth: I usually get them to school with a generous two or three minutes to spare before the bell rings. But let's be honest here. I am not the most punctual person you'll ever meet. I am always running late, always stressed the last few minutes, barely making it, counting seconds and cursing under my breath at slow drivers and badly-timed red lights.

Haley has, fortunately, managed to inherit her father's punctuality. She hates to be late for anything, and my constant-lateness is a source of constant irritation to her. Jake and Nathan are more like me: slow to get going in the morning. It doesn't bother them to arrive at school with only a few moments to spare. The person it does bother, though, is the girl we carpool with. Her mom called this morning, when I was out running errands after dropping off the carpool, to (very gently) complain at my lack of punctuality.

What could I say? Other than melt down into a puddle of embarrassment (that unnameable scarlet color of humiliated blush all over again) right there in the middle of the juice aisle at Target? There is no reason or excuse I can offer other than my general pathetic-ness. I mean, come on: I am a grown woman. What is wrong with me that I can't pull it together enough to leave on time? Maybe that's why I remembered that morning in junior high so vividly today: can I offer up my childhood as reason enough? I'm late because my dad was always late?

Of course not. I am the only one to blame. I am far too old to blame my parents or to not take personal responsibility. Sure, there is extenuating stuff I could argue about, attempting to push the blame onto someone else: the fact that the boys quite often don't get their stuff together the night before, or that there always seems to be some last-minute crisis (this morning it was Kaleb thinking he neeeeeeeeeeded some Motrin even though there wasn't anything wrong with him, or that maybe the Other Parent in the house could get off the computer and come help me. I can't even blame it on Jake, who is maddeningly slow in the mornings, slower even than I, because he is the kid. If he's slow and late all the time, it's because I've taught him to be slow and late by my example. It is my flaw, manifesting it self in him. And that really is what is bothering me, in the end: I am feeling like we are all doomed to keep repeating our parents' mistakes, over and over.

On the radio this morning, there was a psychologist talking about lying. He said that people who are habitual, chronic liars are just like drug addicts, and that they won't stop lying until the lying brings about a personal moral crisis (like losing a spouse or a job as a direct result of the lying). Once a bad habit or addictive tendency starts to affect other people in your life, it's time to do something about it. Maybe that's what I had on my cell phone in Target: a personal moral crisis over always being late. Through my flood of embarrassment I saw very clearly how my failure has affected the people in my life, but it took the threat of losing my carpool to get the clarity.

Here's the thing, though: deep down, I'm not sure I believe people can change. I want to believe that I can be better in the mornings and get the kids to school earlier. I want to be a better example and I want desperately to not pass my punctuality issues on to my children. Deep down I am not sure that is possible. But I am going to try.

Obviously the universe has pointed out what my new year's resolution should be.

One of my clearest memories of my grandma Elsie's home: in her family room, she had hanging on her walls seemingly every single calendar she'd ever had. I'm not sure she ever removed any calendar. She'd just hang up the new one in a empty space. Most of them were cat-themed calendars, so you'd walk into her house and be met with hundreds of kitty eyes staring back at you.

I'm not 100% certain, but I think she turned the pages on all of those calendars, every month.

I always thought this was weird, but now that I am an adult I have to confess: I, too, cannot bring myself to throw away a calendar. Granted, they are kept in a standing folder in the office closet, out of sight, and not hung up everywhere. But I so understand the impulse. A calendar becomes a sort of journal, if you write things on it. I've got things like miles I ran, how much I weighed, funny things the kids have said, notes from doctor's appointments, to-do lists, and other things I wanted to remember for myriad reasons, all written on calendars.

I'm also learning that not everyone has this impulse to record and remember. It's more of an individual personality thing than it is a basic human trait. Still, I think lots of people like keeping track of the details of their lives. Witness, for example, the little flurry that began last year, fueled by Very Important Scrapbookers like Becky Higgins, to take a snapshot every single day as a way of keeping a personal record.

I tried to do the photo-a-day (PAD) thing. I liked the idea because it felt simple: just a picture every day, and write about it. I photographed things like us cleaning the toy room or organizing the boys' bookshelves; doctors appointments and desserts; kids playing and kids doing homework. I made it without any failures through all of January and part of February, and I love the little details I captured. But I kept getting frustrated, because it didn't often end up that the subject of my PAD reflected THE moment or experience I really wanted to capture. Either I always had my camera to my eye, trying to capture THE most important memory, or I didn't get THE photo and I'd just write down what I wanted to remember anyway.

I always go back to writing, it seems.

This year, I am trying something new. Especially because I have realized that, the longer I blog, the less I write in my journal. They may seem like the same thing, but they are not. My blog entries are more polished, structured, and thematic than my journal entries. My journal entries are more personal and private, less about writing well and more about figuring out stuff. They are both important, but I've neglected the journaling part.

This year, I'm doing an experiment. I am challenging myself to not miss a single day of writing. To write everyday. But, in the same spirit as the PAD: simple and straightforward. I am going back to the idea of a printed diary, only it's got limited space. Space for about three or four sentences, just enough to capture one or two specific things per day. I got this idea from a patron at the library, who told me about a set of books she'd inherited from the family farm. There was one for each year---dozens of them---small books with space for writing just a few facts about the day. Her great-great grandfather had written in them, little details like how much milk they got from the cows, or how much grain they harvested, but also things like "attended Uncle David's funeral" or "cousin Mary's baby born today."

It's probably silly on my part---that portion of my personality dedicated to keeping a record. But this idea makes me excited. I'm keeping my WED notebook right next to my bed, and imagine myself writing in it each night before bed. Just the one or two details from the day.

Of course, I am nothing like a Very Important Scrapbooker. But. I thought I'd share this idea, and the file I used for making my WED notebook. Just in case anyone else wants to join me. There's still the weekend to print it, and to get it bound---mine is waiting to be taken to the copy store for a spiral binding. I printed it double sided, so I can just flip the page each week. Simple, straightforward, and fast!

Here's the PDF:Download 2010 write every day calendar

And a little promise to update my WED progress on my blog, and maybe offer some writing suggestions, or insights, or whatever.

Happy writing!