An Article For Your Next Book Club

Last week when I wrote about coming to terms with my Easy Style parenting, some of you took the time to email me a link to an article that rocked my psychological boat. I assume that many of my readers have already pondered and prayed about this article, but for those who haven't allow me to push it your way.

And while I don't follow the complete trail pointed out in this article (the very title supports the stigma we have about therapy) and there were some thin arguments presented, it gave me enough substance to bite, chew and swallow. In short I learned this: it's okay that people aren't happy and it's okay for me to let them feel unhappiness--especially my children--and even more so my husband.

How to Land Your Kid in Therapy

Thanks Readers! Happy Thinking!

If you like therapy, you'll love this concert!

Let Your Garden Grow

 

Dear Topher in London,

Thanks for taking time to design, purchase and plant the entire grass garden in our front walkway. The grasses are growing like, well, weeds. Their success in thriving may have a lot to do with your perfect placement of them (yellows here, greens there, reds up front, lilac to the sides) and it may have to do with The Chief's compulsion to pee on them every time he's outside. Cheers (as they say on your side of the world) to a dedicated hobby landscape architect and the super power enzymes--and instincts-- from the insides three year old little boy!

We'll have an entire grassland out our front door by the time you come home next month! Next up, snakes???

Happy Snappy Birthday!

Your sister,
Courtney Jane

p.s. I've got an awesomazing idea for a vlog when you come back. Oh yes. Ohhhhhhh yes.





A Topher-approved concert!

July

Good bye July.

You came with late afternoon rain showers, some of which were incredibly torrential. It was as though you were out to show your natural prowess against a month of man-made fireworks. In my eyes, your splendor won the battle, no Creeping Tiger at Midnight firework package could compare to your angry strikes of firebolts and--quickly following--forgiving sunsets.

You were a cool July (or was it my swamp cooler?) I never even saw you sweat. Thanks for San Diego, dusty Idaho and lots of cricket laden quiet nights in my bedroom. Lazy, sweet July.

And in the immortal words of my Grandma Marion at the end of every Fourth of July, I say, "Before you know it, it will be Christmas."

(Funny thing, the older I get the more that statement is true.)

Until next year July, save some storms for me.




Jed Wells photography

*Added bonus!
Here's a little vlog Jed Wells and I shot last night as we were working on July's photo. My apologies for my remark about Jed not being a "real man". How could I say that with his Clark Kent Paperboy hair? Shoot.

Anyway, if you like BEHIND THE SCENES sorts of things, or you're a photographer looking for ideas, you'll like this (but no promises).







One week away, I can't wait to introduce you to some beautiful tunes next week! Zazzah!

Portraits By Chupanzee

Chup starting working on a movie last April. From April until June we didn't get much from Chup. Like all of the productions he's worked on it's been a gigantic adventure. Sure, movies are glamor, glitz and glory but for the guys on the producing side of things, it's terribly hard work. Our hero Chup was working, working, working day and night and when he wasn't working he was zombie-like and dreadful to converse with at night. Man, it's nice to have him back, if not just for the creativity he sparks and the images he sees:

Niece Maggie


Niece Phoebe


Wife Me


Homeboy Brenden


Homegirl June (with Grampa Z)


Son, The Chief Chunkles of Checker Auto Parts (just go with it)


Hear me out, if Chup wanted to start a portrait making business (which he doesn't, but if he did...) don't you think he should call it "Chup Shots"? Like, Cheap Shots, but Chup Shots?

Not really?

Chup Shots by Chup?

Hhhhhhhmmmmmm?

Yes? No?

(I can tell on your face you don't like it.)

(Don't let Chup take a picture of that face, it's not . . . real . . . promising . . .)

I Thought This Was Our Last Baby

It felt so right to say it. It was a solid statement, something that came with daily reassurance. We have three children, I'd practicing saying in the mirror at night. We have three children, and I am fulfilled.

It felt fine.

And when the children would play together--cars, books, wrestling matches--I'd think to myself, yes, one more fits into this scene. One more body, one more brown-eyed wonder.

But on our anniversary a couple weeks ago, I had a profound experience, one that reminded me of the night Chup and I were engaged. We both had distinct impressions that we wanted lots of children. Lots meaning perhaps more than three. Who am I kidding? Lots meaning seven. And here we were, nine years later, with a soul-moving reminder. We have options.

What I didn't plan on was five years of infertility. Which isn't entirely true, my whole life I had an idea that I'd experience struggles with conception. Well, not my whole life, just the part when I knew what conception was. And deep down, in the middle of it all, I felt infertility was a choice I was making. A really hard, strong choice that was for the absolute best--for me, for my husband, for my babies. And as it turns out, that was true. Infertility allowed me a full-spectrum experience where I was allowed to discover sorrow and joy. It gave  my character shape and depth, it grew me into something wild and wonderful and it taught those around me compassion and empathy. Most of all though, it trained my ears to hear the voice of the Lord. I like to thank that spot of me somewhere in my psyche that chose it.

So, as good as the decision felt to be done, along came another burst of inspiration, and with it a consideration of not being done. It never occurred to me that just as infertility was a choice, so was having children. I could choose three children or seven children or five children or twenty two; I am empowered to make these choices of my own free will. It isn't about something falling on my head and telling me I was done or not done.

It was about seeing all the options, and simply making a choice.

Today I went to my first prenatal check up. I like as few office visits as possible, and my midwife Suzanne Smith doesn't mind. She is a staunch advocate for women having choices too. I told her I didn't want to come in every week at the end of the pregnancy. As long as you're healthy? Fine! she said. I told her I wanted Chup to catch the baby this time. As long as he wants to? Fine! she said. I told her I wanted a homebirth as thrilling as Ever's. Will see what we can do! she responded.

Then I reclined on her couch and we heard this baby's heartbeat for the first time.

And the choice I am making is this: we're not done.

For Some Must Push, and Some Must Pull

Today was the day all Utah-dom celebrates the arrival of Mormon pioneers into the Salt Lake Valley. By all accounts the trail from the mid-west to the west was of triumph and tragedy. These were stalwart people, these ancestors of mine.

All over Utah on the 24th of July there are celebrations from Salt Lake's Days of '47 to the tiniest towns dotting the intermountain west. We used to spend our Pioneer Days with the congenial people of Walsburg,Utah when we had our family homestead up the canyon. But these days I've done next to nothing to acknowledge this state-wide holiday--maybe a sparkler or two--nothing brilliant.

Today was no different, we woke up and decided on doughnuts as a holiday breakfast. While The Chief and Chup went in search of some Old Fashioned and Sprinkled, Ever and I dutifully watched the Days of '47 parade broadcast from Salt Lake. I lounged on the couch while she squealed at all the floats bedazzled in sequins and studs.

After breakfast, I weeded a bit while Chup sprayed out the shop vac in the front yard. The Chief and Ever ran in circles around us both until they were entirely muddy and drenched. I gave Ever a kitchen sink bath and scrubbed in between her dirty toes.

At nap time I went to lunch with my friends. For nearly two and half hours we talked about everything from womanhood to eternity. I don't think we solved any problems, but it's enlightening to sit hash out the big stuff. Did the women pioneers get to chat while they pushed and pulled their family to the desert? Did they serve as trail companions to each other? Did they answer one another's moments of reflection, "Why am I doing this again?"

It sorta felt that way today, at lunch.

When I came home I crashed on the couch as the children played with their bikes in the Green Room. Chup dosed off to the constant humming of our swamp cooler. I read my Twitter feed and tweeted about owls and well. . . owls actually. (I will now confess to my Instagram addiction, is there 12 steps yet?)

Later in the day we went to the mall for watch-fixing and gadget repair. Unlike the pioneer parents we were concerned that our children hadn't expended enough energy in one day's time. So we chased them up and down the corridors of the mall until they shuffled.

We met up with Justin Hackworth at BYU for a personal tour of his 30 Strangers project. Chup ended up corralling the children while I listened spellbound to each story behind his photos. I told Justin this, "First you are a photographer, but second you are a storyteller" and that's what makes his art so intriguing.

After our tour was over, Mindy Gledhill showed up for her tour. We exchanged birthing stories and fantasies. I have the dream of having an unassisted birth with just Chup and me--and maybe my sister Page for female support--like I imagine the pioneer women, who birthed as it came.

Then Ever smashed her fingers in the gallery's opening doors and her screams echoed throughout the entire BYU library. We rushed to the car where we found that a bandaid wasn't needed, but an ice cream was.

So we finished the day with ice cream cones swirled in green apple, chocolate or vanilla flavors.The kids were pleasantly exhausted.

The ending of this story is this: my day was one of luxury and enlightenment, work and rest, technology and toys, family and friends. Nothing fancy compared to today, but certainly fancy compared to one hundred and sixty-four years ago.

I'd like to think my ancestors wouldn't have me celebrate them any other way.





*while it may look like the photo above is a modern (AND FERTILE) Mormon polygamist arrangement at a photography exhibit, new readers to my blog will be happy to know that it's actually a photo of Mindy Gledhill, Justin Hackworth, Ever Kendrick and me this evening at the 30 Strangers Exhibit. Besides Ever, each of us have other spouses not pictured--and one each--thank you very much.

Weekend's Border Crossing

My mother in law Kay and father in law Ernie have side-by-side summer birthdays. Every year in the later parts of July we head to Twin Falls, Idaho to celebrate. This year we kept the tradition of shopping at the Twin Falls Deseret Industries, where we serendipitously found a Tickle Me Ernie for Grandpa. We thought it was a gag gift until Chup discovered Tickle Me Ernies going for a hundred and fifty bucks on e-bay. How's that for a gift that keeps on giving?

We also went swimming at a place formerly called Sligars but is now under new management as 1000 Springs Resort. Before you book any travel, I would add that resort should look more like this, "Resort" as in, 1000 Springs "Resort" and you should come prepared for time travel back to 1961. But boy did we have fun.

My favorite part of Twin Falls is the ancient lava rock formations in the middle of fields and fields of crops--beans, corn, barley, alfalfa and of course, potatoes. This juxtaposition of desert and fertility gave Twin Falls County the nickname Magic Valley. But I wonder if the magic is not found in the plant-type crops, but the crops of hot men they grow in bunches. For example, Chup.

All weekend long I worried about my little windowsill geranium I forgot to water before we left. When we arrived home however, it stood steadfast at the window, like it had been on the lookout for robbers all weekend and had not withered a bit. Who needs an alarm when you've got geraniums?

Tomorrow Utah will be celebrating Pioneer Day--which is a state holiday where we all hug each other, eat pie and go to a rodeo. Mix in a nighttime sky of fireworks and you've got a real treasure of a celebration. I mean, I appreciate Idaho with it's "resorts" and magic and all, but I'm a Utah gal at heart.

Happy Birthday Kay, Ernie, Andrew and Jayne.

Yee Haw!

This Made Me Do The Flare-the-Nostrils-Close-the-Eyes-Shake-the-Head Cry

just about the time Sarah says, "I knew I was a mother."

via Mormon.org

This Is A True Story

I was recently perusing my friend's blogs when I saw a giveaway for Birds of Ashmae on Nat's blog and I did this, "Waaaaah I want an Ashmae original. Waaaaaah! I'll never win!"

And this is what an idiot I am:

At that very point I had in my inbox (double stuffed) a very recent email from Ashmae with an attachment--a painting she did of me and the Chupaloop at our last concert--that I had not been able to open yet because I didn't know about how to open attachments on my phone because I got a new phone and I need a tutorial but not from Chup because he's waaaay to excited about technology and all I want to know is, HOW DO I OPEN ATTACHMENTS? not when will they release the latest jail break for the iphone because I don't even know what a jail break is unless we're talking about the game I used to play in my youth with my brothers and sisters in the basement on Saturday mornings.

So it was like this "Waaaaaah I want an Ashmae original. Waaaaah! I'll never win! Waaaaaaaaaait a second."

Chuppie's beard makes me giggle.

And my dress is my favorite part. I think I like it better then the real one.

Thanks Ashmae, I feel like a winner.



*and thanks J. Hack for the original shot. Remember you actually had to ask Chup to put his arm around me? Let's not tell anyone about that, I'd like them to think you found us this way, all snuggly wuggly . . .



BECAUSE YOU ASKED... my dress is from Forever 21, April 2011.

Best Blogging Week Ever: Come Tour Retro House With Me!

Readers wanted to know more about a recent post I wrote about ten little things I like to accomplish in a day's time. In particular they wanted to know about #5:

5. Zone duties. (My mom taught me to order my house into zones, and every day have one zone to clean, organize and make brilliant. So Zone One is the upstairs and gets the treatment on Mondays etc.)

What are zone duties? Allow me to show you.




Any further questions? Like me on facebook and I'll likely answer you. Serious dedication here.



BECAUSE YOU ASKED...pants and shirt from Lilac Clothing.




Now I am thinking about my hair for the concert...wavy? Up? Down? Will it be windy? So many choices and time is running out . . . ONLY TWO WEEKS!

I Just Want To Tell A Funny Story

The last two days I've been doing a photoshoot for the Food Nanny on BYUtv. It's been a pretty harrowing experience. Diana from Yan Photography has been behind the camera, and at both locations I've had something heavy and possibly deathly fall on my head. You think I'm being funny, I am not.

I almost died twice in the last few days. So now I am blogging while writing my will. Who should get my kids? I mean, if Chup goes too? If I go without Chup I've got a list of acceptable women he can marry. Though it looks like I'll have to cross my stylist Ashlee off that list (waaaah, young love). I've always thought if my children couldn't have me, they'd at least have great hair.

Truthfully though, Diana is a very alluring person--even though she was clearly out to maim me. Ok, the second near-death experience nothing landed on my head but it was a pencil eraser's width away from landing on my head--which makes a girl think about her mortality. Let me tell you.

Who should get my prized VHS copy of Labyrinth?

Today's shoot was of me and my fake family at a dinner table. A really good looking Billy Crudup-type played my husband and a adorable ten year old Gracie was my daughter. I am emphasizing how enchanting my fake family was today because sometimes I like to make my real family feel jealous and give me more attention.

Billy Cudrup, what a dream. Dreamy, dream, dream, dreamy, dream.

(Working yet?)

I was told to be at a blue house with a yellow door in Mapleton by noon. Of course, I had actual directions but there can only be one blue house with a yellow door in Mapleton, Utah believe me. When I arrived in the home an artsy, gregarious mom came to welcome me. And she said,

"Do I need to introduce myself?"

And before I could say yes, I had this recollection of being at our Lower Lights Rooftop Show last October doing a massive cd giveaway from the stage. Chup was actually in the crowd picking people to win and I was above getting the crowd all crazy about it. And crazy they went. People stood, jumped, yelled, waved, whistled, screamed and begged. From the front of the audience there arose a tornado of wanton movement. This striking, blond woman was actually shimmying at my husband's side. Moving her shoulders and her hips--and everything else there was to shimmy--for a chance to win the tower of cds for her sister.

For her sister!

(It's time for every Christian woman ask themselves: would I shimmy for my sister?)

But Chup somehow didn't make her a winner that night.

Even still, a beautiful blond throwing herself at my husband, shimmying and sauntering for his winning affection? It's an image I will never get out of my head.

Nor could Chup.

He thought about her all that weekend, "I should've given her the cds," he lamented over and over again. Then you know what he did? He went on my blog and wrote to the world this:

Shimmy girl - You're the one from the concert that jumped out in front of me. I've felt bad ever since that I didn't give you one of the CD packages. Black shirt? Wanted the CDs for your sister? Don't actually know if she reads the blog, but maybe someone who knows her can tell her? I think she knows Justin Hackworth? 

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what happens next in this post, Shimmy Girl was actually Leah Naomi--owner of the blue house with the yellow door in Mapleton. The photoshoot was at her clean white house, with her clean white walls and her clean white kitchen.

And no, she didn't need to introduce herself. At all, actually.

So we spent the afternoon in her home, taking photos with my fake family, and meeting her real family and hearing about all her design projects for downtown Provo (yay!) and after all, just when I didn't think I could like Shimmy Girl anymore, I did. I just did.

I know you thought this story was going to end with me being jealous because Shimmy Girl turned out to be quite lovely, but maybe you forgot . . . Billy Crudup?

*photos taken by Diana from Yan. Please note, I always put my hands on my hip when I take a photo. My friend Heather Corrigan taught me to do that when I was a missionary and it's going to the grave with me. Speaking of going to my grave, I've almost finished my will.Topher, if you're reading this from London, you get my kids. J/k you get my Muu Muu collection.


*my make-up by the empowering Daniela Rowson and her massive collection of MAC. Marrrrrvelous MAC!




I'll be wearing my gold Lilac Clothing dress. And we're just bringing blankets.

Six Months

with The Chief:


With Ever:


With Squishy:


Squishy. That name is sorta growing on me. Squishy Schooner Kendrick.

Just try and talk me out of it.

Just try.

At six months I feel:
A lot of rolling and pollying.
Tapered nausea.
Weepy.
The beginnings of wanting to plan the ending
(home birth).
A resurgence of saucy-ness and vivacity.
Bliss.
Nightly nagging legs and feet.
Adoration for the children I have already
(were they always this dishy?)
Hot and sticky.
An unprecedented ability to be distracted.
What was I saying?
Amorous
(lucky Chup.)

(And I do mean lucky Chup.)









Time to start planning! What are you going to wear?

I'd Like to Think They Picked Me For A Reason

I had The Chief I was thirty-one years old. I don't know about where you come from, but having a first child at thirty-one years old is pretty rare around here. My mother had her first baby in her very early twenties, my sisters the same.

When I had The Chief at thirty-one I had convinced myself that I was mostly washed up. I was going to do my best to be an old thirty-one year old mother, and I was going to try and keep up, but it was second best. Second best to being young and twenty-ish.

So anytime I was tired, exhausted or strung out with my newborn, I never allowed myself to say "Well, this is motherhood" instead I'd say, "Well, that's because you're too old to be having babies."

Sometimes my own view is so small, you see.

Then there came a day when The Chief--one years old--was climbing on the concrete stairs to the backyard. I was lounging in the white sun chair watching his every move. I watched as he slipped past the railing and starting daring his feet to hang over the four foot drop below. I thought about gettting up and saving his diapered behind, but instead I just sat in my lounge chair watching him. In fact, it wasn't until he landed with a hard thud to the back of his head that I got up from that lounge chair and offered my condolences. He screamed, held his breath and fainted (it's a syndrome) and never once did I think, "I should have prevented that situation."

But I tried to feel bad--because I knew I should feel bad--about not spotting him on those stairs.

So after thinking about it for a couple days I decided that I was not only an old mother, but a lazy one. My age made me incapable of having enough energy to properly keep a toddler, you see. I was old, I was lazy, but I'd still continue to try and keep up.

I watched younger mothers like satellites around their babies with fresh wipes and clean diapers never two feet away. One time I put The Chief in a swim diaper at church because it was the only thing I could find after fishing around under the seats in the car. I was too old to know that swim diapers are good for nothing on dry land. And I was too lazy to have stocked the diaper bag. Truthfully, the only reason I had a diaper bag was because all the young moms had one. Anyway, he was soaking within twenty minutes of the diaper change.

"Swim diapers don't absorb," one young mother informed me as I discovered the failed attempt.

I didn't care about reading any parenting books starting with What to Expect When You're Expecting to How to Get Your Child to Sleep Through the Night because those were for eager parents who had the energy for expectations and sleeping schedules. Me? I was just glad to be a parent in the first place.

I was old and lazy and that's why I didn't care if The Chief drew with marker all over the walls, or if he was horrible at sharing, or became a damned to hell demon at church, or if he constantly peed in inappropriate places, or if he jumped from greater and greater heights. A young mother would have the energy to research, plan, make goals, create sticker charts and pray for progress. Not me.

Then last night as I was washing the dishes and Ever was getting chocolate chip cookie drool all over every piece of space in our house at the two foot level, I resorted to the same, "You could stop her, but you're too old to be a mother, too old to be pregnant and too lazy  . . ."

Which is when a voice in my head retorted, "That's not true. These choices you are making have nothing to do with how old you are, they are choices you make because you have faith in your children. You have faith that with minimal intervention your children will learn what they need to learn. Stop making it about your age, you would've been the same mother ten years ago. This is what motherhood feels like for you. Accept it."

Suddenly what I thought was tempered negligence was actually veiled intelligence all along.

So today I woke up and and told myself that I am not an old mother, I am not a lazy mother, I just do things a little differently, and that's okay.

Then tomorrow, I am going to repeat that mantra.

And the next day.

And the next day.

And probably every day after that for the rest of my life.

Making Senses

 
Five things I am doing for my senses this summer:


*Taste*

I have made cakes, I've made pie, I've made tarts and "darling" cupcakes, but I still stand by the classic chocolate chip cookie for dessert. It's perfect. It needs nothing, it wants nothing but it gives so much. Every morning The Chief wakes up asking, "Can we make cookies Mom?" and that's the other incredible thing about chocolate chip cookies, they make for a fantastic lazy person's breakfast.

p.s. I only make choco chip cooks with brown sugar. It's a dangerously nutty splurge, a risk white sugar can't handle.

 

*Hear*


One of my favorite songs on the Lower Lights album is a throw-back number called Count Your Many Blessings. It's sung by two girls who have the most retro harmony I've heard since 1946. I was so intrigued by this arrangement that I started doing some homework and discovered the voices to be of Vivian Smith and Becky Jean Williams--the lead vocalists for The Mollies. Last week Vivian sent me their two albums in the mail, and we've spent many summer hours listening and falling for this style. It's soft, sweet music but also very lively with instruments and melodies--it was a cool surprise for both Chup and me to discover how much we dig these albums. I would recommend it for the songbirds in my life, people who appreciate well-crafted music. Very good on the ears--specially as a backdrop to summer.



*Touch*

Because I am at the salon so much with Ashlee I've made friends with half the place. One of my favorite stylists at Platinum is Destiny. She gave me this advice to soak my hair in pure coconut oil once a month for twenty minutes. Because I am the type of person who figures, "if 20 minutes is good, how about 20 hours?" I bought a jar of pure coconut oil from Basa Body and have been soaking my hair in the miracle oil once a month for 24 hours. It does make for super oily hair one day, but for weeks after that I have the softest hair in the history of my desert-dwelling life.

I would say it's the softest thing at our house right now, but Ever Jane's baby skin can't be beat. Fresh out of the tub? Forget about it.

*Smell*


Utah has always had strict firework laws. There were very specific and hard rules regulating when and how we could light off the sparkling wonders. This year the law changed and we can now celebrate with sparks and glory from June to July and the firework stands are open for business. Because we live close to a firework-approved park, we look out our windows at nights to see lights dancing in the sky. And sometimes we contribute with our own stash. But the smell of a freshly lit firework is the best part for me. It's the scent of celebration, active fumes and just a hint of danger.

















*See*

My wonderful friend Laura from Dear Lizzy sent me a box recently. It was a box full of thought-provoking quotes on old brown cardstock, typed up in an equally old courier font. Every day I pull a quote out of the box and meditate a bit on the truth. The arriving conclusion from that card becomes sort of a fortune for the day and it shows up at the right time in the twenty four hours that follow. The other day I pulled one that read, "The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes. Marcel Proust" So I've been trying to see different angles, different views--not figuratively only, but really seeing with different eyes.


And I love the new views. Who knew the mountains had snowy tops in mid-July?

Now I know.



And now you know.