Thank You Canada!

We are half way through the Olympic Closing Ceremonies and I am starting to feel the pangs of post-Olympic depression. For the past two weeks Chup and I would resume nightly Olympic watching positions on the couches in our den. We've eaten all dinners on our laps, our eyes consuming more action than our bellies. Bob Costas tucked me into dreamland more than once. Sadder than most however, will be The Chief whose bedtime was extended to "after the next commercial break."

When I watch the Olympics I do so honoring my ancestors. Not only do I cheer on the USA, but also the Norwegians (my Larsen side) which means I had to rub it in Chup's Swedish blood (his Jensen side) anytime we were victorious. Which also means Norway's 23 medals next to Sweden's 11 is making our marriage rocky. But by tomorrow none of that will matter.

By-the-way, I would have equally supported the Brits (my Clark side) but I didn't watch much of the Skeleton events.

Most of all, I was proud to show my pride in Canada. The country who hosted my soul for a year-and-half as an LDS missionary. Canada was the nation who took me by the hand (mitten) and taught me the ways of tortiere, poutine, tuques, caban a sucres, ketchup chips and beaver tails. It was Canada that gave me my first pair of white ice skates. Canada taught me how to ice skate. It was Canada who picked me up time and time (and time and time and time) again when I inevitably skidded on my knees or buttocks--mostly, it was the buttocks--while skating their canals and lakes. Did I just say buttocks?

America will always have my true patriotism. Norway will have its 23 medals. Sweden will have ABBA. But Canada --Oh Canada!--we will always have Vancouver 2010.

*my thanks goes out to Leanne in Calgary for sending The Chief his official Canadian Olympic hoodie, and me the much-desired maple leaf mittens.




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Interested in being a dear cjane sponsor?
Click here.
Hint: It's really fun . . .


Guiding you to Provo:
A musing during a traffic jam.


My CommUNITY:
Beautiful LDS Temple Prints.

Just A Note From My Brain About Yesterday

After I had written yesterday's post, Late Afternoon Mormonism I asked Chup to read over it before I published. Where I lack in seeing the big picture, Chup is very good at scoping the landscape. I asked him to make sure I had in NO WAY moralized the story. I wanted it to read like a simple narrative, not any social commentary or proselytism.

It passed Chup's test, which is next to impossible. The man has a critical eye and can see subtle messages in hidden passages, he has no trouble calling the dirt. So when I came back clean, I was pretty proud of myself. Even made the complicated attempt to pat myself on my own back.

Of course I knew that the aftermath of comments weren't going to be pretty. Blogging about religion is never a safe bet. I was accused of all sorts of sin: self-righteousness, small mindedness, bigotry to name a few. Fine. Fine. Those comments didn't bother me much. Mostly because my motive was pure. That is all I can ask of myself.

Next to changing my blog's name to DON'T TAKE THIS ONE TOO SERIOUSLY I can't help those who do. Or those who call me fat in my third trimester. I mean, seriously?

ANYWAY, the reason I am writing this is for those people who asked in sincerity for Mormon bloggers to perhaps be more upfront about the doctrine of their religion. I want to respond to those good people: First of all, I would love to, thanks for asking.

Second of all, after you read the train wreck of progressive angry anon comments yesterday I hope you'll have a little insight on why it isn't so easy. We love our religion just like anyone else, and to see it slaughtered is something the human soul doesn't take easy. It is uncomfortable and like my brother in law MD said "make us grouchy" (which is a whole ethical nightmare because at the core of our religion we are commanded to seek happiness).

If there was a way to guarentee that being more upfront would garner more compassionate responses, we might be in business. Big, fat, (third-trimester) TALL order, right?

Now I won't let it deter me, but I can easily why it would make my fellow Brothers and Sisters weary. So please give them the benefit of the doubt in this blogosphere. It is all I ask.

There are probably seven trillion things I will have wished I said in this epilogue. I will discover them all slowly as soon as I publish print. And I am also sure to be opening myself up to more useless controversy from this post as well. But I can't forget the wisdom of my Chup who says next to manipulative posts, arguing over the internet is the most disdainful downfall of today's blogger. (As opposed to yesterdays blogger.)

And because I can never miss the opportunity to call myself a martyr, I let The Chief scribble the entire toddler alphabet over my legs and feet with his always favorite green highlighter just to write this post. This comes post-shower and you know how hard it is to take one of those in the typical mothering morning.

I care people. I CARE.







dear c jane today:
FEBRUARY MOTHER LODE GIVEAWAY!




On c jane's Guide to Provo:
Will the Great
Zego the Scar!



My Community:
I am following this thread for wannabe moms.

Late Afternoon Mormonism--Post Edit

It was late in the afternoon when The Chief and I arrived at my parent's house. I was doing a radio interview where I had to call in using a landline. Chup and I have three cell phones between us, but no landline, so I was there to borrow my parent's.

While my mom and niece Lindsay entertained The Chief with toast and apple juice, I talked with Jane Flotte of Interfaith Voices about being a Mormon blogger on the phone (the landline). Jane asked interesting questions and I found myself having to really compute to answer them. Questions about being a Mormon who is public about my faith, Mormon stereotypes, Mormon lifestyles, Mormon ideas about womanhood.

Deep breath.

When the interview was over I thanked Jane for making me think. Then I joined my mom (Umi), Lindsay and The Chief in the family room where my curious boy was digging through his Umi's toy basket looking for cars. My mother's neighbor was also over, sitting on the couch in her black-and-white dress and pink jacket.

"I have news." She said to my mom.

"Yes?" My mom answered, sitting on the opposite couch with her legs crossed.

"Mr. Whitehouse's wife passed away this morning."

"Oh no." My mother replied.

In our very dominate Mormon neighborhood lives a quiet family who isn't Mormon, the Whitehouses. We probably wouldn't know they weren't Mormon (maybe just not active Mormons) if it weren't for the giant gray van they drive with the words "Baptist Church" on it. Just the same, we all lived our respective Christian lifestyle as friendly neighbors.

"She'd been in the hospital for a couple days, but this morning when I went to see how she was doing, Mr. Whitehouse told me she had gone to another place."

"Another place?" My mom asked.

"To another glory, he said. Anyway, he has no idea what he should do next. A funeral, a burial. I asked if our Relief Society could help feed his family. He has no idea."

"We need to call the bishop." Said my mother, who has the bishop on speed dial, because the bishop is her son. "The bishop will know what to do."

Our church is organized by wards--a defined geographical area--which in Utah means a couple blocks. Our wards are lead by a bishop who is called typically to serve for five years (more-or-less) out of the goodness of his heart. It is a big job. One of the many responsibilities of the bishop is to oversee funerals. He helps the family make arrangements for the casket, burial, and church money needed for the expenses if needed. Along with the Relief Society President, he also helps ensure the family is fed and sees to their needs. Typically the ward provides the family lunch at the chapel following the burial. It is a total collective effort for all neighbors directed by the bishop.

After calling, texting and emailing the bishop without an immediate response my mother stewed. "She was having such a hard winter. I hadn't seen her in a while. We need to help him. The bishop will know what to do."

"Even though they aren't Mormon?" I asked.

"You know," said my mom's neighbor "one time I asked Mr. Whitehouse why he wasn't a Mormon. He told me 'One day I prayed and asked God if I should be a Mormon. And He answered me, Yes . . . if you want to go to Hell.' "

We all laughed for a second. The Chief was playing with a tiny car on the floor.

"Wooshshshshshshshsh!" His sound effect.

"I'll go back over and ask if we can help contact family." Said my mother's neighbor, playing with her pearl necklace back-and-forth with her index finger, "I will check back with you later this evening."

After she left, my mother tried the bishop one more time while twiddling her hair. My mother only twiddles her hair when she is worried about someone.

I sat back on the couch thinking about the earlier interview. Here was the Mormon experience I wish I could've conveyed in that conversation. How could I ever explain being a Mormon in under fifteen minutes? Even fifteen hours couldn't do it justice.

Even on a landline.


Post Edit-thanks readers for pointing out that my first edition of this post didn't go far enough in explaining why the bishop was needed. I can count on you, can't I?


On dear c jane today:
Cute kid wearing a cute t-shirt.




On c jane's Guide to Provo:
Have you bean to Cocoa Bean Cafe?



My Community:
Is your answer samosas too?

Tender Mercies: Cabin Fever Edition

At 4:17 I called it.

"CABIN FEVER!"

It was boiling in my blood. The irritating, stuffed feeling of not having a breath of fresh air in three days had infiltrated my skull. The Chief was finger painting with pudding (Daddy bought a year supply of Costco chocolate pudding) all over the walls. I didn't care. I didn't care. I just wanted something else in my lungs other than the Caribbean Salsa candle and the constant blowing of dry heat out of the vents.

So I stepped outside into the atmosphere of gray sky colored by inversion. I saw my breath linger out of my mouth and into the freeze of late afternoon. The cold overcame the deep breath I was supposed to be taking, so I dashed back inside.

Stuffy house? Frigid temps? What choices are these? Especially when I've been so sick lately with some respiratory gunk and getting out of the house is just not an option. These days the bladder can't do coughing or sneezing without reaction. "Stay inside. It is best to stay inside." Warns everyone.

Cabin Fever, you come right on time every year, mid-February. You make me crazy, you. You make me pine for sunshine in a way August will never understand. You are like atmospheric constipation. Why try my soul like you do?

After The Chief was cleaned up, the walls washed and the highchair scrubbed I let the little fireball set ablaze another area of the house. This time it was the dumped out garbage in the den, where he (luckily) found an old tube of toothpaste. I let him suck on it for awhile. I didn't care. I didn't care. I just wanted him to be content.

I thought about making a salad. And that is as far as I got.

I tried to snuggle with The Chief and read books, but after the fifteenth "Please don't kick mommy in the tummy" which lead to the sixteenth, "DON'T KICK MOMMY IN THE TUMMY!" I gave up on that too. The child needed a pro-wrestling gig and I wasn't going to be the opponent.

Instead I prayed, "Please Heavenly Father, please let someone show up at our house to create a diversion around here. The Chief, he suffers--as do I--from the Cabin Fever. Amen."

At 7:02 a knock on the door.

It was my sister in law Lisa.

"You were on my mind tonight." She said as I let her in the door.

"Really? Where are your children?" I asked hopefully, looking past her out into the driveway.

"Oh I told them to stay out in the car."

"No! No! Let them in! Let them all in."

"But they have ice cream cones, all five of them."

"I don't care what they have. Get them and bring them in right now."

And in they came. Miles and Owen and Phoebe and Hugh and Margaret with ice cream cones and enough energy to supply Los Angeles for an evening.

I thought The Chief was going faint in the glory of it all.

There was wrestling and piggy backs and toys littered all over the house. And Margaret hugged The Chief and The Chief pinned her down to the ground without her crying at all. And Hugh was kind enough to let The Chief follow him around in shock and awe of his coolness. There were dog piles and books read and chasing and tears and laughing and drinks of water. At one point The Chief sprawled out on the living room floor, belly up, with all of his limbs extended--almost like he was doing a snow angel in the carpet. He was exhausted with joy.

You should've seen it.

Meanwhile Lisa and I had a great, albeit often-interrupted talk about important matters pertaining to the soul of a mother. I confessed that her inspiration to stop by was an answer to my prayers. She brought with her the cure for our disease. And before they left she had the entire crew pick up my whole house. Spotless. As if they were never there.

8:52 I put The Chief to bed.

And as we prayed together we thanked Heavenly Father for healing our type of illness.

Until next year Cabin Fever. Until next year . . .





c jane's Guide To Provo:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY LUCY!



dear c jane today:
Holy Feather Ring!


My Community:
Where I ask you to pretend you are an Olympic Athlete . . .

Never Underestimate the Collective Power of Estrogen

It was Saturday mid-morning when Ellen stopped by.

Ellen is a student at BYU who is graduating in clothing and textiles. She also happens to love couture and has recently taken up designing and creating her own clothes. (Like this fantastic gold number and the glory of this petal dress.) When I heard she might be available to make some postpartum house dresses (yes, house dresses, but no moo-moos) for me I asked her to come over post haste.

Even though we had never actually met.

But when I opened up the door to meet Ellen I was filled with giddy anticipation. I loved her already. Her self-created blue shirt with silk roses and dark brown hair looked like a vision on my white armchair. She was heaven-sent, I knew it.

So we talked dresses and patterns and zippers and buttons and all the while The Chief threw Booty like confetti all over the front room. We talked about the complications of a postpartum body--the aftermath of an empty womb, the leaking of a full chest, the hot flashes, the unshakable desire of feeling desirable again. And I touched a dozen different swatches with the imprint of my thumb.

It was most glorious.

The energy in the room was so happy, when Chup walked in he was a bit overwhelmed. Later he said to me, "There was so much energy going on, I didn't know how to react." Which explained why he turned into Captain Shy when we asked him to take some photos for our respective blogs. "I married Mr. Darcy." I explained to Ellen, remembering Collin Firth's face anytime he was in the presence of the Bennet sisters.

When Ellen left with sketch pad and gold ruffled flats, Chup and I took The Chief out for fish tacos. It was over lunch when Chup and I discussed Ellen's visit.

"I think that energy is created when two women respect and admire each other." I suggested. "And what if every woman felt that way towards every other woman? Imagine the energy that would fill this planet. It would cure disease, stop wars and wipe out social ills." I predicted, rather daringly.

"You are probably right." Chup said remembering the morning's aura filling our whole house.

I mean, we know the damage that can be done when two women war against each other. Terrible, lasting effects that can destroy souls and ruin families. Think what could have happened if Sister Capulet loved Sister Montague. No really, think about it . . .

A day later a follow-up email came from Ellen.

"Do you know my Aunt Lani?" she asked.

Lani? My dream-boat, well-read, deep-thought idol? YES! Of course. I could easily see how these lovely woman could share dna. Happy, happy connection made.

And I am starting to think, if Lani, Ellen and I were ever to get together, our united spirits might be able to rid this nation of any lingering recession.

Don't be surprised.



The Ellen Switzer Project,
is going to be a regular posting on my
Provo Blog. Read more about it.



On dear c jane today:
PUUUUURSE!


My Community:
I am following this discussion,
What do you do to Achieve a Balance in Life?
Interesting responses.

Nomenclature--Post Edit

Of all the things I was going to have perfected as a parent, naming my child was number one. I had lists and names and opinions and a head full of pride. I was a number one, gold medalist, world champion namer.

But all of that was before I actually had the honor of naming an actual human being.

As it turns out, giving a name to my own posterity is far more complicated than I ever realized. I don't relish the thought of having to do it a second time. All of my favorite names--penned on paper since my teenage years--no longer feel right, or they are now so trendy I cringe at their popularity.

Knowing all of this, I've been pretty open-minded about name suggestions for both male and female names since the beginning of this pregnancy. I even thought we had a solid name for a daughter until one day I was vacuuming and I heard something of a voice in my ears saying, "Name the baby ____." I'm sorry, I don't have the guts to actually announce the name I heard in my ears (during vacuuming, why do I always get revelation during vacuuming?) to the whole world yet. And this is why:

The name is not an actual name, it is a word. A word I would use in a regular sentence. A somewhat spiritual word that I've never heard used as a name.

But that isn't really why I am too nervous to declare it here. This is really why:

Every time I become brave enough to tell people the name I heard (while vacuuming) they hate it. My mom wrinkles her nose, shakes her head. Lucy held a brief intervention on me the other day, "You can't do it!" Stephanie tried to be kind, but I could hear her inner-dialogue. In fact, the only person who has said anything positive about it (outside of me, Chup and the Voice in My Head) was Jed Wells. My banner designer/cousin. And I trust him, I do. Did you see the way my Nutella finger sparkles? Totally his idea. But three out of a dozen people? I don't like those odds.

And yet, I sorta feel (ok I really feel) like this is supposed to be this child's name. I've tried to talk myself out of it, to toss it, or trade it for a more socially acceptable choice. BUT I CAN'T. And I am sheepishly suggesting that it was whispered in my ear by an angel. The Naming Angel. The same one who told Isaiah to name his son Mahershalalhashbaz (which cheerfully means "Destruction is Imminent") or Joseph Smith's naming of his neighbor's son the always fashionable, Mahonri Moriancumer. Like that (but with a two-syllable name instead).

I like the name, actually. I do. It grows on me as the baby grows inside me. But it wouldn't hurt to hear from anybody out there who has been in our boat. Anyone out there have a unique name they have proudly sported their entire lifetime? Anyone out there with a name and a story bigger than "my parents just liked it"? Anyone ever felt they were supposed to name a child a specific name even when they weren't sure how it was all going to play out? Or named their baby while family members stood silent behind bitten tongues?

If so you can leave me a comment, or email me c jane mail @ gmail.com (no spaces).

And if you are capable of going back in time (like Micheal J. Fox) please don't tell my old me that at this point in my life, the point where I am sure to shine, what a mess I am. Let her believe in her glory while it shortly lasts.

Do that for me?

Post Edit: We have been overwhelmed by the response from this post. Chup and I went on date where we took time to read some of the emails and comments. We were so touched by your encouragement, wisdom and thoughts. There are some beautiful stories out there, thanks for sharing them with us. It means a lot, you may never know. The Naming Angel works in mysterious ways . . .

I am sure as soon as this baby comes we'll be announcing the name. Sadly it isn't Temple, Glory or Eternity (in fact, it isn't a noun at all) but those names certainly have a righteous tone.




Today on c jane's Guide to Provo:
Did I tell you?
I have your date night plans!



On dear c jane:
The drop of magic that has saved my life this week


My Community says:
We have a Shabby Apple Winner!

Pain In The

I am going to write this post about preparing for labor. This is not a post where I am posturing, politicizing or opining about birth options. I have long-since learned there is no merit in that. Simply put, a woman has to do what a woman has to do. Still, if these sorts of posts don't sit well with you, I understand. But will you please come back tomorrow?

With my first delivery I opted for that clever needle called an epidural. It was so powerful I spent many hours believing nothing below my torso existed. Several times I checked to make sure my legs were intact because I certainly could not feel them. At one point I hallucinated and thought I sprouted eight legs, and it seemed plausible--I was no longer in control of them anyway. I said to my sister Page, "I feel like an octopus about to give birth."

When people tell me their epidural didn't work I want to give them the cell number of the guy who inserted mine. Man, he was brilliant! When they told me it was time to push, I was completely confused because what was I supposed to push? I didn't have anything below my torso, remember? So I just made a face that looked like I was pushing. And it worked!

It really is quite remarkable. And for my efforts I received a cool little baby who--oh boy--I would turn into Octopus Mom everyday to have placed in my waiting arms again.

(In fact, some mornings I say to Chup, "Will you go and get the baby from the crib and bring him to me like I just gave birth to him?" And as every day goes by that little swaddling baby gets less cooperative about that precious game.)

So I've had that experience--and for my birth plan it was perfectly executed. I know how that delivery felt for me (great! almost like nothing!) And this time around I thought, why not try something new? Which is the blessing I get for being alive when many options are available. Plus, if I don't like the un-medicated route, I can certainly go back to the medicated. I still have the anesthesiologist's cell phone number logged into my phone. Never to part. He was soooo good. Did I mention?

So in trying to be where I need to be to give birth (with a torso), I have asked to be spiritually guided towards certain mental preparations. One of which is the acceptance of pain.

(Oh the things I do to myself for self experimentation. Goodness me.)

I believe I am beginning to understand that pain has a purpose, and if given the right to present itself, it allows for essential inherent bio-feedback. I also believe that if pain is allowed to be heard, it no longer becomes pain, but enlightenment.

(Which is all fine, but how do I remember that when the pounding of birthing cramps come knocking at my weak human frame? Is what I want to know.)

It seems I am learning that the physical pain I feel daily (the charlie horses that wake me up, the nerves being pinched at all directions at all hours, the desire to vomit every time I bend over sensations) pale in comparison to the emotional pain I feel from being human. And I wonder if the key to understanding physical pain is to first come to terms with the emotional.

Which is why perhaps, the more I pray about understanding pain for the purpose of this delivery, the more opportunities to battle emotional pain are sent my way.

The pain of unintentionally hurting feelings.

The pain of public humiliation.

The pain of having to say sorry to friends who I've neglected.

The pain of motherhood guilt.

The pain of feeling jealousy and envy.

The pain of not having enough compassion for someone who needs it.

The pain of thinking about postpartum energy and how it lacks.

The pain of wanting to make everything right for my sister and her children.

The pain of wanting to make everything right for everyone, everywhere.

To mention a few.

Even still, I believe like most Christians, that through the atonement, Jesus Christ took our on pains--emotional and physical--so we would turn to Him for comfort, for survival. Which has made me wonder, how much is pain choice? And how much is it necessary? If we allow pain to help us progress, and ultimately it becomes our teacher, does pain (as we define it) exist at all? Or is it a state of mind?

I am still pondering. It might take a lifetime. In the meantime, I am going to take a breath.

But here is this: today I went to have a check-up with my midwife. Per routine, she weighs me. This is normally done with me standing backwards on the scale so I don't have to witness the scale gradually going up, up, up (up!) to the final number. Of any emotional pain, weight/body image is certainly a top contender in my life. But today, I turned around. I (painfully) faced that number--that outlandish number--and casually shrugged at it.

So I think we're getting somewhere.





On dear c jane:
My stuff from the Fresh Nest photos



Today on c jane's Guide to Provo:
Utah is the second happiest state in the country
here is why I agree.


At My Community:
Mindy sings, I cry, You cry?

Sister's Surgery

was a success! She's resting well in the hospital. Your prayers never seem to fail.

Thank you.

Customer Service

I am not really sure why I am writing this post. Maybe as written proof I am going both blind and crazy? Maybe to come to terms with losing some key elements of my existence? A cry for help?

I don't know.

What I do know is this: I was at a store the day before Valentine's day. It was the type of store where one would shop for family-friendly Valentine gifts like balloons, candy and heart-felt cheese. I had ordered a specialized gift and knew I'd need help in picking it up. When I walked into the store I saw two young teenage girls working the cash registers and a boy of similar age in the back of the store behind an order counter.

And the place was packed with patrons all hopped up on helium-filled, heart-shaped latex.

I thought about perhaps asking the boy in the back for assistance, but from my point of view he looked sort of sullen and depressed. I couldn't exactly see his face, but I decided against approaching him when I noticed he was just sitting there squinting at me from behind the counter. Instead, I started to wait in line knowing it would probably prove fruitless because the girls were too busy punching numbers and running credit cards to go check on my waiting order in the recesses of the store.

But after standing in line for a trickle of minutes with a full bladder and two waiting boys in the car, I became impatient. So impatient I thought, Alright, I am going to go ask cheerless crab for help. Which is when an angelic-looking woman in a particularly delightful periwinkle sweater asked me if I needed anything.

(Sometimes being pregnant all over works to your advantage, you see.)

And I said, "Oh yes. My name is Courtney and I have an order . . ."

But before I could finish her eyes enlarged and she blurted out, "Oh right! Yes! Follow me please!" and she headed towards the back of the store.

Towards--you know--him.

And just as she disappeared behind the order counter with me close behind, I came face-to-face with the creepy employee.

It was a cut-out of Edward Cullen.






On dear c jane today:
How The Chief ruined his Persimmon & Pink print
and how it all turned out ok.



On c jane's Guide To Provo:
A rocky gallery reception
Simply Utah
and
Free Tax work.
All in one post!



Today in My Community:
Win A Shabby Apple Dress
on my first ever community giveaway ever ever!

An Update On My Family, Including Jesse

I got an email from a reader last week asking me about my family. She was trying to name all nine siblings in our family but could only come up with eight.

It read:

Matt, Chris, Andrew, Stephanie, Courtney, Page, Lucy, Steve, and.....????

Jesse. She was missing Jesse. This pleased me to eternity (ok, not eternity totally) because no one ever misses Jesse. Jesse is the brother just younger than me, the one who stole all my attention, the golden child, the little boy who was adored by anyone who met him, the favorite, the show stopper, the dream come true, the one great hope, the cute freckled face boy mom's wanted their daughters to marry etc. etc. etc.

It was the only time in my life when someone forgot Jesse. And I know it is petty, but it just felt so good. So good I had to blog about it. Now I am remembering an email I got last year asking about sibling rivalry (does it exist in your family? It asked.) And now here you have it, Jesse vs. Me . . . and this round I WON.

Oblige me? I'd like to write a brief update about my family. This recent email reminded me that it has been too long.
So here it goes:


The biggest news of all is that my dad was called as a Mission President (and my Mom as his trusty companion) for our church. Mission Presidents are the people in charge of all those young-faced Mormon missionaries who knock on your door. They will run the LDS mission in St. Louis, Missouri. Missouri is a place where it was once legal to shoot a Mormon, so good luck to them right? (Just kidding Missouri, I know you've since apologized). They will be gone for three years starting this June. This is happy news! This is sad news. I will now have to go to Missouri anytime I want to cuddle up in bed with my parents. But anything for what you believe in, right?


My brother Steve lives in the sunniest part of our state, the best place to be in mid-February. Don't feel sorry for my brother Steve.


My brother Matt, was just called as the bishop of his ward. This means he oversees the spiritual and temporal well-being of the families in his neighborhood--these families include my grandma, my parents, my aunt and uncle, my cousin Jayne and Jed and sister Stephanie and her family and hundreds of non-relatives too. He would be my bishop, but I live one street away to be in his stewardship, which is good because I'd have a hard time taking him seriously. This is my brother who would win the gold medal for Teasing if it was an Olympic sport--to tie in current events.
(I am so proud of him!)


My sister Page is presently in Arizona taking her shift with Stephanie. She is simultaneously growing out her hair for the first time in her life--gray strands be damned. Darned. (Page doesn't swear.)


My brother Topher is talented as ever. I was recently at a social gathering where I overheard a discussion about his theatrical directing. A gushing discussion. "I want to work with Chris Clark." "You've worked with Chris Clark???" "No, I said I want to work with him, he's brilliant." "No, beyond brilliant." And so on. I had ask Chup to restrain me from blurting out, HE'S MY BROTHER! Because shhhh little sister, shhhh.


My brother Andrew likes chocolate-covered raisins and is not ashamed of it, so why should I be?

Then comes me. I put crazy blond chunky highlights in my hair, because I'm punk like that.



Then Jesse. But who cares?
(Oh, ok. He is going to have his FIFTH child in August, that is all. My little brother with FIVE children!)
(I am proud of him too.)



Stephanie underwent emergency surgery this weekend. I am sure she (or Christian) will update the blogging world soon, but we as a family are grateful she's in the care of our nation's best doctors and they are taking really good care of her. She could still use your prayers and general well-wishing, we will gladly add them to ours.

Get Well Cub! WE LOVE YOU!



Lucy lives in a place where, if she feels like it, she can walk outside her front door, cross the street and let Betsy (her baby) feed apple chunks to little, white, furry lambs. So life is just fine for Lucy, don't be feeling sorry for Lucy either.

This is the update for my posterity (and interested blog readers).

Now, please return to your regularly scheduled life.



On dear c jane today:
How Betsy's bows stay in place
(you might be surprised!)


On c jane's Guide to Provo:
Emily Fox's Fabricating Womanhood


At My Community today:
Colorful Clothes, Great Cause!

Spice-ified Front Room? Done!

After a serious, sit-down discussion I had with my earnest niece Jane in 2008, I was forced to come to terms with me having lost my style (or spice--as she called it). So it was in the early part of 2009 I decided to bring back my spice.

It started here with my living room.

And today I am happy to report the room is finished!

(With the original paneled walls in place.)

It took me a year (A YEAR TOILING IN THE HOT SUN OF DESIGN DECISIONS!) and two different shades of paint color (cool green to warm gold), but I am so pleased with the final project. It's colorful and crazy and reflects who we are as a family.

I can only hope Jane will approve.

If you'd like to see more photos and running commentary, please go to Fresh Nest Design. And if you do head over please take time to say hello to my bust of Diana. Currently she is having relationship issues with Chup's bust of David which both amuses and concerns the bust of Charles Dickens who sits atop the piano.

Anyway, I am still waiting for the day The Chief head butts them all against each other into little plaster pieces all over the carpet. Until then . . .



Today on dear c jane:
Plump your lips right in time for kissing season:

From Desert to Dessert to Deseret

Tomorrow we head home.

This trip was too short. Not even an afternoon spent digging our way around Last Chance. Not even a drop of aqua fresca. Or roadside chiles rellenos. This trip was too short.

I am happy to report the desert is blossoming. We were even treated to a splendid spring rain shower this afternoon. The barometric pressure dropped and we slept the late afternoon away. We awoke to the smell of desert and rain. Nothing on this natural planet smells better than desert and rain.

(One time Chup told me he'd like to drink that smell. I love that thought.)

I am happy to report The Nielson children charmed us into taking them to dinner at McDonalds for fries and playland. We only conceded when they promised us they wouldn't tell their mom (resting at home) or dad (helping her rest at home)--a promise they quickly broke when we returned them home. Darn those cute kids.

I am happy to report that Grandpa and Grandmary Nielson helped me map out all the shopping centers in the valley, so indeed next time I will be prepared to shop in an organized manner. Really, the shopping out here is tremendous, even for a non-shopper like me. And a Circle K on every corner.

I am happy to report my sister Stephanie is fighting her way through this procedure along with her personal assistant, Christian. She has retained her vigorous sweet tooth (even texting me tonight with a thought about sugar cookies) and ability to roll her eyes in any direction. (Rolling eyes and whistling are two things Steph is fantastically talented at--I should mention). And we had a good laugh in realizing that though her hunch is larger than it was on Monday, my chest bump still trumps all. (A thorough side-to-side sisterly profile shot proved it to be true.)

I am happy to report that I am ready to go back home to Retro House and finish the "Before Baby Comes" projects. Nesting bits that won't let me sleep at night. It is time to secure the little spots left unfinished. And Lucy said she'd clean my kitchen floor when she returned. She has it down to a science--fifteen minutes and my floor makes Mr. Clean envious. (The line about Mr. Clean needs work.) (But for the time being, I am still on vacation.)

Good bye desert. Take care of my loved ones when we leave. I want them back in Utah as soon as this early spring turns to hot summer.

But in the meantime, keep up the good work.







On dear c jane today:
He Finally Fell In Love With Me Crockpot Cake

Lovely Lady Bumps

Today I met my sister's hump and she met mine.

Does that sound weird?

My sister Stephanie is in Arizona where doctors have inserted a balloon-type mechanism into her back. As this balloon expands so does the healthy skin, which creates a double hump on her shoulder. With this harvested skin they will be able to fix the skin on her neck and chin, thus helping her with mobility in those areas. I feel like a scientist explaining all this.

Chup had some business to do in Phoenix, so me and the little guy climbed aboard the plane with him. After we landed this afternoon we went over to visit The Nielsons. We found all to be well, the children were as spicy as ever and The Chief fell madly in love with Ollie and Gigs all over again.

We spent a good time in the backyard playing on the grass. What a novelty. February and soft grass.

Claire and Jane who have been skeptical of my pregnancy from the beginning finally admitted that my forward hump was indeed baby-induced.

"Is it like been pregnant, with your hump backwards?" I asked Stephanie noticing that she had to avoid certain positions. Like I do.

"Um. Not so much." She replied.

Of course it's not.

Truthfully, I have no idea what it is like for her. And sometimes when in crowded places I will look around and see how most people have healthy skin--unburned, untreated. My sister lives a life that very few--very few--can understand. It involves daily emotional and physical pain at levels I may never feel.

Sometimes it is overwhelming to comprehend.

Still, it was nice to sit outside until evening watching Chup throw the kids all over the lawn and discuss sisterly things like maternity leggings and growing your hair down to the bum line. Dreamy.

Someday, in a few months time, we will no longer have our matching bumps. I will have a baby to show for it, and she will have a reconstructed neck and chin. And both come with added bonuses: she'll be able to lounge on her backside, and I will once again relish face-down tummy sleep.


Looking forward to it.


On dear c jane today:
Great plates!

The Night We Became Old

Van and his date Dixie the night of the Valentine's dance--Lindsay Kay Clark photography

On Friday night my teenage nephews Van and Layton asked if they could bring their dates over to our house after the Valentine's Dance. The plan was to play Rock Band in our den from ten until midnight. Our house lends itself well to this sort of function. The den is a solitary place where we put the tv and books, but was much abandoned until winter swept along and we found salvation in a PBS education.

But moments before the double date was set to arrive, Chup and I couldn't find our Rock Band disc. Anywhere. (Take a minute to look around your house, do you have our Rock Band disc?) I sent a frantic message to both boys saying NO DISC! But about fifteen minutes later they showed up anyway.

"We'll just hang out, if that is ok." Said Layton as he shuffled in the door.

"Sure! Fine!" I said as I waved the crowd down to the den.

Chup set up Netflix to stream through our X-box so we get movies on demand. I am using all these terms I really don't understand here. I think you get the picture. I assumed they would want to watch a movie, so I gave them the option. More than anything I wanted to be the cool aunt. Just cool.

The dates got comfortable on one couch with pillows and blankets. I gave Van the controls and guessed he knew what he was doing. Why does it take me seven months to figure out the X-box controls when kids these days make it seem so easy? Anyway, they started to flip through all the available options. I unobtrusively left them to do their thing.

But I got to thinking, maybe I should offer them treats.

I mean, treats always go with a movie right?

But then I didn't want to be the attention-seeking, annoying aunt that keeps showing up for silly reasons.

But then I remembered I had a lot of treats to offer.

So I took down some bowls of gummi bears, chocolate-covered pretzels, Pirate's Booty and chocolate raisins.

"Just in case you like treats." I said softly, ducking below the tv and quietly presenting them on the coffee table.

Then I realized I had offered a bowl of chocolate raisins.

Chocolate raisins.

Only old people like chocolate raisins.

Should I say something about the chocolate raisins? I thought.

Because what if chocolate raisins are embarrassing to the boys?

(Like when your grandma offered you black licorice and you had to respectfully eat it.)

So I said, "Chocolate Raisins!" (Pretend chuckle)"I am sorry. Only old people like me like chocolate raisins!"

But they were all really nice.

"Oh no! We like chocolate raisins!" They all seemed to say in unison.

So I left the chocolate raisins there--pride intact--and went upstairs unnoticed.

But that is when Chup entered the den with his loud improv voice.

"He he! What have we here?"

Oh no. I thought.

"Watching a movie are we?"

Teenagers mumbling.

"You know, there should be a bible's space between you and your date!"

Not the chastity jokes.

Teenagers awkwardly laughing.

"Well. You guys sit here. And Courtney and I will sit on this couch over here with a spray bottle and our eyes on you."

A spray bottle?

Teenagers shifting uncomfortably.

I couldn't believe my ears. In our marriage this is my role. I am the goofy one, the one who regularly delivers flat jokes, who makes people have to pretend to laugh. Chup sits collected while I make the room squirm. He has long refined the art of censoring my silliness and replacing my odd jokes with his better ones. This was a new frontier here.

Before he could continue, I asked him to come up the stairs to um . . . help me . . . with . . . something. He left them with one more one-liner and dutifully came to answer my call.

"Did you forget?" I asking whispering.

"Forget what?" He said, seemingly pleased with himself.

"What it is like to be a teenager and have your goofy relative say embarrassing things in front of your date?"

Pause.

"You are right. I did forget." He said thoughtfully. "Thanks for reminding me."

The rest of the evening went well. They watched a movie, had brownies and ice cream and left some time after I had gone to bed. I mean I went to bed but couldn't fall asleep because I'd have outbursts of laughing about the spray bottle line.

A spray bottle?

The next morning as I was cleaning up I noticed they left the bowls of treats on the table. Most of the treats were consumed, gummi bears, chocolate pretzels and Pirate's Booty were gone.

But the chocolate raisins remained untouched.





Just by way of public service . . .
My Community is a great place to ask questions, post new ideas or link to personal projects. I've noticed a trend in these sorts of things in my email inbox lately, and I am sadly unable to mention them all personally. My Community has over 3,000 members and is a great resource for getting the word out. Your word out. Whatever that word is (but 'cept not a swear word). To check it out, go here.

On dear c jane today:
Valentine Week Day One:
Basa Body New Truffle Soaps!


On c jane's Guide to Provo:
Provo Orem Word launches!

Not So Much Better

You know, sometimes I just have to admit defeat.

The only real blogging I was able to do this evening was about SLABpizza for my Provo blog (cjaneprovo.com baby!) It's a new shop and already Chup and I have been there seven trillion times. In fact, the last time we showed up I actually apologized to the owner Eric for coming so often. Basically he has become our family chef, only we go to his place so I don't have to do the dishes afterward.

(If I have a personal chef, why am I so tired?)

I wore this same outfit at a promo I did for Halftees yesterday. Come to think of it, it doesn't matter how much pizza I eat, my Halftee will always fit. (I should've said that in the promo! Brilliant news!) Anyway, if you ever see the promo on the Halftees website you will recognize this outfit. I am saving myself embarrassment here.

I am in the third trimester, only two things fit and I am going to rotate until I deliver. Purple shirt, black dress, purple shirt, black dress, purple shirt labor pains and done.

Thanks Wendy for the photo.

(Am I flaring my nostrils in the photo--a little bit?)
(And is that a wink? I can't really decide.)







On dear c jane today:
January's Mother Lode Winner!




On c jane's Guide to Provo:
SLAB it on:

The Post I Sacrificed My MAC Lipstick to Write

In the middle of posting last night I fell asleep with the laptop warm on my lap in bed. When Chup came in to turn off the lights he woke me up and asked if he should turn off the computer. In a haze, I said, "yes, just a minute" and proceeded to erase the entire post I was working on. I think it was better that way because I am not sure what my droopy subconscious had written.

Something about how I've got a horrible case of nesting?

This morning I also noticed that as I was texting Lucy in Arizona yesterday checking up on everyone, I had texted some very bizarre messages, to which she repeatedly responded, "what?" "what?"

It is possible I am only functioning on a fourth of a brain. It happens, my neighbor on the west side only had a fourth of her brain and what a party she was! Random and tipsy. I loved having her visit.

Anyway, I will try again tonight. In the meantime, I am going to splash deathly cold water on my face and see if I can't get off the island of Tired & Worn Out.

Third trimester! How it haunts!

p.s. did this make sense?

p.p.s in order to be able to write this post I let The Chief play with my make up. A part of me is not ready to push PUBLISH and see the holy damage I allowed in the bathroom floor.

p.p.p.s he just came to me with a chunk of my lipstick in his teeth and black eye shadow all over his lips.

p.p.p.p.s it is as bad as you are imagining.


On dear c jane today:
Custom dresses, you can't believe it until you see it.



On c jane's Guide to Provo:
It is official, I am the new SELF APPOINTED Miss Provo.

An Ode to Groundhog Day

Before I ever had a child of my own my older sister Page told me, "Motherhood is like Groundhog Day."

And I thought, yikes.

Then today I woke up.

(Like the day before.)

And I could hear The Chief singing, "Mama! Baa baa!" from the nursery.

(Like the day before.)

So I pulled my heavy soul from bed and went to the boy. Opened his curtains, welcomed the sunshine like this, "Oh What A Beautiful Morning!" kissed his head, bowed over to fish him out of the crib, yanked him over the crib walls and put him on the floor for a swift change of diaper. Waved good bye to Dad.

(All like the day before.)

Then it was down to the kitchen for a bowl full of cereal (we share one bowl one spoon) and a refill of his sippy cup. I yawned seven or so times as I sat on the stairs using my spoon to bulldoze wheaty goodness into my son's mouth. Meanwhile, he took a serious inventory of all the pots and pans in the low kitchen cupboard.

(7 pots, 2 pans just like yesterday.)

When breakfast was over,we commenced our earnest daily cleaning regimen, starting with the dishes. As I rinsed and loaded The Chief resumed his post as Water Control while crouched in the sink.

(Naked, just like yesterday.)

Then it was off to dress the boy and myself and finish off the vacuuming, dusting and rotation of lazy laundry. I was interrupted by The Chief's demands for "bouy" in a bowl (that would be Pirate's Booty in a bowl) and "choo choo" (that means Thomas, you know, the Tank Engine) downstairs in the den.

(Thomas was spectacular, just like he was yesterday.)

And it seems like we've been at it all morning, but the clock hasn't moved past 9:42 in the last two hours. Which meant we aren't any closer to naptime.

(9:42 all morning yesterday too.)

Then it was time for cheese quesadillas with beans and a break for my feet. A couple stories in the nursery. A little boy's protest he doesn't want a nap. An insistence from me THAT INDEED HE DOES. At last, the golden hour of naptime.

(Not long enough, just like yesterday.)

A couple hours later we were back to making and destroying train tracks on the coffee table, eating more bouy, me sneaking a peek at my email, The Chief finding me on my laptop and insisting we watch youtube videos about cats (oh the fun), folded the warm laundry, hoped Dad will call soon on his way home, changed another couple diapers, filled another couple sippy cups, played smash crash with the wrecking crane and the fire truck, why hasn't Dad called yet? explained that Mao is out of batteries, tried to explain again, swept up the buoy making crunching noises on the bottom of my feet from the kitchen floor, dreamed about a really dreamy dinner, is Dad home yet?

(Dad comes home, like he did yesterday.)

We ate. We played a couple hide-n-seek variables. We went downstairs and had our nightly family dance party. We put the boy in the tub. We cleaned up dinner. We read scriptures. We said a prayer and put The Chief back in the same crib where we started from. We crashed on our bed together and fell asleep. (Only to wake up fifteen minutes later remembering there is still a young night with tasks enough to fill it.) Dad went downstairs to work and I blogged on the laptop in bed with a beverage. Then sometime late in the night we met up again, turned off our consciousness and fell directly to sleep.

(Sounds familiar? Think yesterday.)

Then in the morning we will all wake up and do it again. And again. And again. And again I suppose, until we decide we don't want to do it anymore. So Page was right, it is Groundhog Day. But what she forgot to mention is that it also includes buoy breaks and youtube cats.

Two things you can never get enough of, no matter how many times you repeat.

(I wouldn't change it for the world.)





On dear c jane today:
Glass Stars--again!




On c jane's Guide to Provo:
Provo's latest music scene
It'll make you happy . . .