A few weeks ago, I bumped into an old friend at Costco (why is it that nearly every time I go to Costco, I see someone I know?). I'd not seen her for a few years, so we stood in the aisle with cocoa powder and taco seasoning, talking about our lives. After I'd given the abridged version of the past three years---going back to school for another degree, teaching high school English, finally getting pregnant, leaving teaching to be a stay-at-home mom---she asked me this question, one I hear quite a bit:  "Do you miss teaching?"

It's a hard question to answer. On a surface level, I miss teaching because I hate that look people get, even though they try to veil it, when they hear you're just another mom. "Don't you know what millennium we're living in?" the look asks. Shallow, yes, but I do miss having that title, just to avoid that look. Deeper, I miss the way it seemed that there were a few students---even during my miserable, horrible, filled-with-hooligans first year---I was able to connect with. Don't get me wrong; I learned early on that my idealistic reasons for teaching (changing the world one loves-literature-and-beautiful-sentences student at a time) were just that, ideas, and the reality was something different, something much, much harder. But difficulties aside, and even knowing I probably didn't change anyone, there are students I miss. In a broader sense, I miss just associating with so many different people.

There are lots of reasons I could list for not missing teaching. I could write entire essays on it. But it's hard to say without sounding whiny. Let's just say that the hours that teaching took away from the time I could have spent with my children cannot be replaced with any amount of money; the district acknowledged that by not giving me much. (And even that little bit sounds whiny. See above idealistic reasons for why I started teaching and you'll notice that the pay wasn't one of them.)

But really, answering that question requires me to look not only at those external reasons. It makes me look at me, internally; who I am. Did "teacher" make it into my psyche, along with the other essential things that make up me---writer (although I hesitate to even write that word, and what a writer really is could fill up another blog entry), mother, lover of the outdoors, reader, noticer of misplaced apostrophes? I don't know yet for certain. I do know that I love the act of teaching, standing (or, usually, sitting on whatever desk is in front of the room) in front of people and sharing something I know that might be useful to them. That truly has become a part of me.

I guess I will keep on thinking about what I want to be when I grow up. I hope life continues to offer me opportunities. I hope that when I'm, say, 82 years old, small and grey and wrinkled, I'll have a long list of things I've been; I hope I'll still be wondering---what's coming next?

Get this: I scrapped.

Yes, me. The one who's filled her (limited) free time with sewing projects. Who's barely glanced through two issues of CK. Me, who---speaking of issues---is having issues with scrapping in general. More specifically, with the disconnect I feel with the magazines and my own scrapbooking approach. The recent rallying cry of "Scrapbooking is an art form!" is leaving me feeling dejected. So, I've not scrapbooked since early November.

But then a few days before Christmas, I took this sweet picture of Kaleb. And I wanted to put down on paper the thoughts that had been flitting around in my head for days. So I took a deep breath, dusted off my paper cutter (and my exacto knife!), dug into my supplies, and started. And, you know, all my contentious feelings melted away. I remembered that what I love about this hobby isn't and has never been doing it the "hip" way. It's always been about doing it my way. Which isn't all that visually thrilling.  But that's OK, because it makes me happy knowing I have this face saved, and my thoughts about this face saved.

So, Sophia and I were talking and I was bemoaning the fact that nearly every meal I make someone complains about. I wish I had a plethora of ready-to-make, always-enjoyed recipes. You know the kind: you always have the stuff in your pantry for it, and it's just downright good. Everyone devours it; no one complains. I want more of THOSE recipes! Sophia said she'd post that as her 2peas Challenge. Here's my recipe to share, along with a short story about where I got the recipe.

I finished college after my kids were born (both degrees!). I loved and adored going to school---except for group projects. When you're tired and stressed and feeling guilty for taking your kids to daycare anyway, adding more time away was just too horrible. The semester I was pregnant was Jake was particularly hard; I was taking eighteen credits, and eight of those were an accelerated Spanish class. (I wrote fifteen full-fledged essays that term, too...I was tired all the time!) In the Spanish class, we were assigned partners, and we were supposed to meet with our partners three times a week, just to speak in Spanish together.

I can't remember my partner's name, but she was the nicest girl. She was so flexible and worked around my schedule so we could fit in those three meetings a week. One week, I went to her apartment to have our Spanish conversation. I was tired and queasy and worried about school work and trying not think about everything I had to do when I got home, so I was nearly in tears when I got to her apartment. She saw me and declared that I needed lunch. So, she made me these burritos. We ate them outside, sitting in lounge chairs by the empty swimming pool (it was October). There aren't many meals I remember with more pleasure than that one. The food tasted so good and the care and consideration behind them were even better.

Red Burritos

• One big can refried beans
• One can red enchilada sauce
• One can tomato soup
• 2 T chili powder
• 2 beef bullion cubes
• A whole bunch of cheddar cheese
• 7-9 tortillas

In a sauce pan, heat the soup, enchilada sauce, chili powder, beef bullion, and one soup can of water. Spread beans on tortillas; sprinkle cheese on top of each burrito before rolling. Pour enough red sauce into a 9x13" casserole to cover the bottom. Place rolled burritos in casserole; pour remaining red sauce over burritos, then sprinkle with cheese. Bake at 400 for about 20 minutes or until cheese is crusty and sauce is bubbling. Serve with sour cream and lettuce for garnish. Enjoy!

A few months ago, I wrote a blog entry about my dad's Alzheimer diagnosis. As a family, we've done a few things to cope with this. We all went into his neuropsychologist. We've got him a medical bracelet with his name, address, and diagnosis, in case he gets lost. My sister Becky took care of ordering this, thank goodness, because it felt too much like dog tags and I didn't want to think about it. Becky and I set up a rotating schedule, so each week on Thursdays he gets either me or her visiting him. This week was my turn.

It snowed on Thursday, and on my way out, I got stuck. I was only about one-quarter of a mile away from his house, but I was definitely stuck. A Jeep with two teenaged boys stopped, and they got out and pushed me. I felt so grateful; it was just the sort of good Samaratian experience I needed to give me the courage to keep driving to Dad's house. Because try as I do, I can't make myself enjoy these visits. When Becky and I decided to do this, I envisioned a sort of Tuesdays with Morrie experience, in which I would impact him in some way, and he would impart his passing wisdom onto me. Thursdays with Don.

But while it's happened nearly every Thursday since, it's not really Thursdays with Don. It's Thursdays with a man I don't know. A man who's starting to not even look like my dad. A man who answers in one-word replies. Who shifts around uncomfortably and who doesn't have any sort of presence. He's not my dad anymore. We never had awkward pauses in our conversations. We talked about books, tv shows, movies, my mom, memories of past vacations. And if I didn't want to talk, he would talk for me, long, rambling stories about people he always assumed I knew but I never did. He was a talker. He had an opinion about everything. And maybe because I identified with other aspects of his personality, he always, to me, had a quiet, deep, thoughtful side, too.

Now, he's just quiet. And it's not a deep quiet, either. It's an uncomfortable, awkward quiet. During last week's visit, my mom asked me to run some errands with dad. When I got there he was shoveling his driveway, nearly finished, and his car was warming up in the driveway. I'm certain he forgot I was coming. And that's when it started, a quick flash of anger and annoyance. I tried to talk to him while he shoveled. I talked him into turning his car off and getting in my van. I tried to talk to him all the way to Checker Auto. I finally just lapsed into silence, without even realizing it. "Awkward" isn't quite the right word for the quiet. "Hollow" or "brittle" might be better. No, it was this: an angry silence.

Logically, I know this anger is absurd. It's not his fault. It's not anyone's fault. But I felt like shaking him, like yelling at him to stop pretending. Stop pretending to be my dad because he is not doing a very good job. Stop pretending to be sick and silent. And all through the visit, while we grocery shopped and drove carefully down snowy streets that hold other ghosts for me, while we sat in his front room and I tried to talk and he perched uncomfortably on one of the white chairs, while I made him a roast beef sandwich, my anger filled up the silence. It's not just anger at him. It's also anger at life, that while it leads you down its path it is secretly rolling up the path behind you. Angry that he could end up an old, grey, confused man in a house by himself with nothing to do but eat his sandwich and read the newspaper and then just wait.

And angry at myself for not doing more before this happened, for not asking questions, for being afraid of anything more than surface emotions and unspoken affection. Angry that now, when I say "I love you" before I leave, I'm not sure he knows who it is who thinks she loves him.

I'm not sure what is wrong with me and just why it is that I've not been writing in my blog. But, I've not been writing in my blog. I've been thinking about a lot of things---my dad, some friendships, what I want to be when I grow up. Is scrapbooking really an art? How come my mind thinks I can run for miles and miles but my legs haven't caught on yet? If it takes nine months to gain all that baby weight, and Kaleb is now seven months, then why am I not 7/9ths the way to a skinnier me? Anyway. Sophia tagged me and hopefully her tag will get me back in the writing-in-my-blog mood!

What were you doing 10 years ago?
Ten years ago, Haley was almost nine months old and I was adjusting to being a stay-at-home mom of one. I'd been laid off from my job at Novell a few months earlier. I was a happy size six and far more innocent---nay, I should name that "stupid"---than I am now.

What were you doing one year ago?
In January of last year, I was teaching at Lehi High School (yep, I know it's a dumb name! I thought when I was first hired that I would campaign to get it changed, but so swamped was I by the endless demands of teaching that I just didn't care enough!). I taught English 12, AP Language, and Creative Writing. I still have teaching dreams! Also, in January of last year I was pregnant with Kaleb and had just started feeling him move outside of my belly.

Five snacks you enjoy: ( in no particular order, as all snacks are created equal... )
Geez, only five. I don't know that I can limit myself.  OK:

1. Anything chocolate---well, I guess not "anything" because I don't like Crunch bars or, umm...waxy, cheap chocolate chips. Anything else chocolate, the darker the better, is up for grabs.
2. Artichoke dip with tortilla chips
3. Raspberries in cream. Or raspberries just washed. Or anything raspberry.
4. homemade chocolate chip cookies
5. apple pie. with cheddar cheese. (No, not joking. Last Thanksgiving I gave extra credit to those students who were willing to try my favorite Thanksgiving dish and write a paper about it. I even had some converts.) 

Five songs, to which you KNOW all the lyrics:

1. pretty much any pre-1991 Depeche Mode song
2. Most of Tori Amos's sons
3. Ditto on Sarah Mclachlan (who I love but can never remember how to spell without looking it up)
4. "Only You" by Yaz. I have a horrible singing voice but have sung this song to every one of my babies. It's sad and not really applicable to babies but when that's what you remember in the bitter watches of the night, that's what you sing.)
5. "Baby" by Dave Matthews. Wait, is that one H or two...can't remember. But I love that song. Kaleb likes it too.

Five things you would do, if you were a millionaire: (This is me assuming that I've suddenly had a million bucks drop down from the sky, tax-free, correct?)

1. Tell Kendell to quit his day job and go back to school.
2. Pay off my house.
3. Furnish my kids' college funds
4. Buy Kendell that truck he really, really wants that he gave up getting so we could have a minivan.
5. Go on a lovely, peaceful vacation.

Five bad habits:

1. Too much Pepsi
2. Popping my knuckles
3. Picking my fingernails
4. Procrastination
5. WAAAAY too much TV

Five things you like doing:

1. Reading and writing (but, alas, not 'rithmetic). Anything to do with words makes me happy.
2. Talking one-on-one with my kidlets.
3. Running and hiking
4. Taking pictures and scrapbooking them
5. Gardening

Five things you would never wear, buy, or get new again:

1. hmmm.  OK, it will be hard to think of five.  Diaper Gene.
2. Luvs diapers
3. that perfectly lovely but horrible itchy cream sweater coat I got last year at the Gap
4. 50% of my scrapbook supplies purchased before I figured out how to shop without buying stuff I really don't need.
5. ummm...I can't think of anything else. Does that mean I am forgetful or just a really good shopper???

Five favorite toys:

1. my camera
2. my exacto knife
3. the DVR
4. sewing machine
5. lipstick (does that count as a toy? I love lipstick.)

Whenever I visit my mom's house, I tell myself "this year for Christmas, I'm getting Mom an ice cream scoop." Instead of using one, she and my dad scoop ice cream with a spoon, so there's a wide array of bent-back serving spoons in their utensil drawer. But after fifteen years of being grown up enough to notice this, I've still never bought her an ice cream scoop. Why? Because there's an unwritten rule in our family:  You never give Mom anything that has to do with cooking. I remember asking her why once, when I was about ten or eleven, and I still remember her response. "Because I'm in the kitchen enough. A gift that's practical just means I'm there even more. I think at Christmas and my birthday, no one should ask me to take care of them."

I told Kendell about this, and I think he thought that I felt the same way, because he never gave me anything to do with the kitchen, either. I never explained to him that I think my mom's idea comes from one brand of feminism and my own comes from a different sort. I think in her mind, being a strong woman means involving yourself in as little of the traditional "woman's role" as possible. In my mind, being a strong woman means that I decide what I do with my life, not my husband, not social expectations. And that it's OK to choose the traditional role, albeit with my own spin.

A few days before Christmas, Jake asked me if he could call Daddy at work somewhere where I couldn't listen. So I helped him dial the phone and then left him alone. That same night, Kendell took Jake and Nathan Christmas shopping. The boys were very secretive and very excited. I knew, of course, that they were shopping for me, but of course I didn't pry. On Christmas morning, Jake and Nathan were over-the-top excited to give me their gift: new oven mitts (Jake's very own idea because he noticed that my old ones were stained and torn) and a new spatula (picked out by Nathan because "you have already flipped enough pancakes with that old one").

Whether they tie me to the kitchen or not, I love these gifts. I love that these two sweet boys of mine were so thoughtful. I love that they were excited about giving and not just what was under the tree for them. And I love my new kitchen stuff. I know that every time I use them I'll get a little flicker of the same emotion I felt by the tree this year. It's probably a little bit silly that a pair of oven mitts and a spatula can make me feel cherished. But that's the exact word I need to use: Cherished. And I also feel a little bit sad for my mom. I wish an ice cream scoop would make her feel cherished, too.