Fetching My Pail of Water

Today was Katie's funeral. It was beautiful. Full of hope and memories, faith and renewal. I came home thinking about how fast my emotional well is drained these days, and how the funeral of my dear cousin filled it to overflowing. Funerals are places where heaven congregates with earth.

Though there was one moment, a small fraction of time, where I did look around at the attentive audience and thought to myself What are we doing on this earth? Here we all are just trying to make sense of this experience. Some of us are hoping for ideals, feeling faith in the afterlife. Some of us have no sense of our position and wonder if it is really sandwiched between a pre and post earth life. And about how much of our daily activity really gets us closer to where we want to be? Does Heaven laugh at our ignorance?

But then I remembered the concept of prophets. Many religions believe in the calling of prophets by God in ancient times. We Latter Day Saints believe God still calls prophets today. The very purpose of a prophet is to tell people God's will. In return, it is entirely up to the people to accept this message or not. The message usually shared is the answer to my initial question, What are we doing on this earth?

According to the prophets--both who have lived in ancient times and our prophet today-- the answer is love. To learn how to love, to accept love and feel love. Somewhere in all that experience of charity there is clarity. Our path is made even brighter. We know what to do and how to do it. I know this and yet, I have so much to learn. Everyday I see a little more of the importance of this life . . . this mortal-wrinkly-smelly-painful earth life.

And I am happy knowing that Steph will have a second chance at it.



If you would like to join us Latter-day Saint women around the world in a little inspiration and filling-of-our-wells we'd love to invite you to our General Relief Society Meeting this Saturday evening. It is always uplifting and encouraging. My sisters and I usually go together with our mom. Read more about it here.

I'm The Lucky One

Me and Lucky

A couple days after this photo was taken Lucky invited Chup and I to her home for fish tacos. We had just met and wildly became fast friends. As I recall we had a peachy time with her, her good-looking family and her dog named Posie. I think we might've even stayed too long. But she somehow forgave us and an e-mail was waiting for me when I arrived home.

"Are you going to blog about our dinner tonight?" She asked.

I was at a point in my blogging where I wasn't sure if I should write about my private social events. I am a private public blogger, but I am also publicly private person (if you say that three times slow it totally makes sense). Though I wanted to write about all of my outings and soirees, I also wanted people to feel like they could hang out with me and not have to read about it the next day on the blog. Like last Sunday when my dad put a random bowl full of fish crackers on the dinning room table next to the roast and slab of mashed potatoes.

"Be careful of what you do Dad." Warned Andrew "It might end up on the blog."

And see?

It did end up on the blog.

Anyway, before I could answer Lucky she shot back an e-mail with a change of heart.

"Don't write about it, I just want it to be our little secret evening."

And so I didn't.

But tonight Lucky and her crew came to our house for dinner. We ate some enchiladas, corn-on-the-cob and my version of Chup's salsa. After dinner, the kids played in the Astro Turf room as Lucky and I theorized on various subjects from same gender romance in the Church to the morals of the youth of America. Meanwhile, The Chief nursed the evening away.

Three years ago I met Lucky through blogging (in a contrived sort of way). I have no doubt that our friendship was designed by heaven (everyone: awwwwe!) I love her very bosomy because she is a unique soul, and I admire her story. She seems to be the one who gives me insights into my missing puzzle pieces.

Though we've had many outings since our initial dinner (including a very splendid/bizarre road trip to Arizona) (and the night she was the bartender at my birthday party) (and the time I saw her in her pink chaps) I've never realized that our union was made possible by the blog-o-sphere . . . until tonight.

So heck yes, I am going to blog about it.

Blogs are for Friends.

Put that on your bumper sticker and sell it.

Peanuts

When I got sick this week I was alone. Chup had a business trip in Florida. (Florida, hi. I despise you. I kinda wish you didn't exist. You and New Jersey.) I called Page for a leg rub and The Councilwoman for her token bottles of Recharge. After they left, I kept my hope at Chup's arrival later in the week. His return would be salvation. Then I'd see to it that all would be well at Retro House. Then, I would start the healing.

But as it turns out--after a delayed-a-day flight--Chup came home sick too.

And so there was no relief in his homecoming. He went upstairs and wallowed in bed while I juggled The Chief just like I had been doing before. Still sick. Meanwhile my house simmered to shambles and my plants started to go crisp. It hurt to water (yes, that much).

I am quite sure that I wasn't as sick as I thought I was. At some point my sleep deprivation (not because of a sleepless baby, just my condition) caused a major hallucination and I started to think I was a feminist who didn't see the merits of my situation. Husband cozy in bed upstairs, wife groggily nursing baby downstairs.

With a huff and a hunger I went to reheat some curry in the kitchen. That is when, in my dull day dreaming state and baby-balancing, I spilled peanut curry all over the carpeted-kitchen floor.

"I told him that I wanted a tile floor. A TILE FLOOR!" I sobbed hoping Chup could hear me as I rubbed the tight-woven carpet free of curry-stains. The Chief, now banished to his hated you're-ignoring-me swing bellowed even louder.

"I told you I hated this swing. I HATE IT!" He seemed to echo.

Just as this dramatic scene was boiling into a real plot, Chup appeared with his hands on his hips, chest a-front, looking like a readied Super Hero.

"Go upstairs and get into bed." He said pointing down at me with his thunderous voice. I looked up at him through two askew pieces of hair from my feeble hands-and-knees position on the floor. I said not a word, but held my fingers to my face as I hurried on my way to my awaiting bed.

I collapsed onto the mattress like it was a summer swimming pool. After sliding around, trying out multiple positions, I finally settled into a pillow-hugging-leg-stretching-stomach-lying arrangement and soon I was sleeping.

And I dreamt. I dreamt I was at a bar in Europe. I sat at the counter with my head looking up at a dismal tv screen which was playing obscure British sitcoms. I ate peanuts, drank water and laughed until I nearly choked. The bar would occasionally serve in big groups of patrons who joined me in my trance-like state, saying things like "Bloody good comedy this!" or "That was more funny than seven funny things!" And sometimes it was just me and a white-wash-cloth-toting-bartender who twisted his head occasionally to see what I was laughing at. But mostly I just sat there--sat there--until the bar finally closed.

It was one of the best dreams I've ever had.

It Wasn't Too Long Ago

I am watching The Chief sleep in his rocking bassinet.

Me to Chup: Oh my goodness. I want to have as many babies as possible! Divine!

I am bathing The Chief as he kicks around in the water.

Me to Chup: Really, I've got to have a hundred babies! These little creatures are the best!

I cradle The Chief in my lap while he smiles and shoots his eyes around the room.

Me to Chup: Because, how soon is too soon?

I am doubled over in front of the toilet vomiting violently with some sort of flu.

Me to Chup (remembering all too well) : Does The Chief really need a sibling?

My Life Is So Much More Fascinating Now, Here's Why:

Are you or aren't you the type of person who likes to read about other people's weekends??? And do you also like a few extra question marks after a leading question??? (why not???)

Good.

Because this is a little photo essay about my weekend.

First of all, at the risk of losing our house insurance on Retro House Chup had to build a trusty handrail off of our back steps. He went the extra mile and painted it green. My question? Who uses handrails these days???
Second of all, I am sad to report that the coons in our chimney did not make it to see better days. Chup found three of them decomposing in our shoot. Luckily Md was here to help build a fishing pole made out of tubing (???) for which the squeakers were scooped out. On the plus side, there was bonding time betwixt two brothers.

Third of all, during the daring recovery Kentucky played with a rusted-out saw. Her words, not mine.Fourthly, Phun loves his new cousin, The Chief. (I know there are some friends out there who want to know The Chief's real and proper name. Chup and I decided not to publish it here, although if you fished around in the blog-o-sphere you could discover it, you sneaky vixen. Anyway, if you are everlastingly curious, e-mail me.)

Last of all, I still didn't get your answer.

Are you or aren't you the type of person who likes to read about other people's weekends???
`

Tuned in Tuna

This afternoon I got a call from Lucy.

"I made you a sandwich. Tuna with tomatoes."

I love a tomato-and-tuna sandwich, so much so that I drove across town to devour it. I went all the way down to Bulldog Ave, up to Grandview Hill and out on the South Point where Ric's jewelry shop is located. There, under an inspiring panoramic veranda did I dine with Lucy, Ric and Ric's Papa. Tuna never tasted so good.

At the risk of enduring ten thousands "Haven't you had that baby yet?" I have deemed myself quarantined from most of society. I am so blessed to have a multitude of loved ones who love me and await the arrival of His Honor the Grand Chief. Only, all that energy is hard to swallow. And so it is that I choose to feel their love while staying quiet in basement rooms of Retro House.

But I will reappear for tuna, I guess.

Once I arrived at the lunch date I was greeted by Ric's Papa and a hearty "Oh, you don't look that pregnant to me. You could still go two more months!" Bingo! That put me in the best of moods. A complete remodel from current comments. But even better, he allowed me to eat my lunch while he told story after story of tales ranging from the sharing of chilled pineapple with strangers to what to do in Milwaukee on a Harley to the exact location of Bluebell, Utah (who knew?)

I hardly had to say a word the entire lunch.

Do you know how wonderful that was?

I could completely focus on something other than me and my thoughts on The Impending. It was pure entertainment accompanied by food and a glass of liquid and frozen aqua (or, in other words, a cup of ice). I could've kissed the man, but instead I ate a lot of guacamole-flavored chips and sometimes asked follow up questions. Like in his story about how he conned some guys into giving him a breakfast burrito I asked "What was in the breakfast burrito?" to which he replied "Scrambled eggs, bacon and some pico" to which I followed up with "No potatoes?" to which he answered "No" to which I thought in my head, What a dying shame.

See because, thinking about the contents of a breakfast burrito was better than thinking about how to rid myself of a case of late-pregnancy-induced acid reflux. You know? Even if it was a potato-less breakfast burrito. (Did I already mention what a shame that is?)

My thanks to Lucy for the tuna sandwich and Ric for sharing his Papa this afternoon. It was worth the unexpected travel plans.

Do you feel like talking about yourself? My comments are open. Feast.

Pro Test

I had the distinct pleasure of watching the Jazz game via my parent's bedroom tonight. The family room had been taken over by an army of teenage boys (some who call me Aunt) of sharp wit and unfailing energy. My parents and I fled the scene as we were no match for such a crowd.

As the game progressed we found ourselves also becoming involved--during commercial breaks--with a Vh1 documentary about feminism. I am so confused about my identity with the whole movement which started decades ago and still wages on today. Most of the time I feel that I am the anti Feminist-of-Today, she who yearns to not just be equal to man, but be man. But I like the feminist who cheers on the causes of free-spirited women. Women who can make their own life choices based on intuition and female divinity.

There was a segment in the documentary where the feminists of the sixties talked about how they decided to protest the Miss America pageant. The film split scenes from energetic women burning their bras outside the convention center to polite women walking down the Miss America stage in their evening gowns. Women holding "sisterhood power!" signs. Women holding bouquets of roses. Back-and-forth.

I looked at my parents. They were engrossed.

"Which one would you rather have your daughter doing, the protesting or the pageantry?" I asked very intrigued.

They slowly peeled their eyes from the tv to my direction.

"The pageant. Of course." My dad said.

"The protest." Replied my mom.

Interesting.

Then when the game became too intense for my mother to watch she left the room. My dad and I were alone flipping between the channels.

"Dad?" I asked.

"Yes?" He replied.

"Did you really mean the pageant? You know that in real life, your daughter would probably be doing the protesting. Not to be mean, just to be different. You raised me that way."

He thought for a second.

"No, really, I'd want you to be in the pageant."

I exhaled. Was my dad losing his edge? I had a feeling that he'd always quietly championed my causes for the contrary.

In the last seconds of the game, as the Jazz were trying to pull out a win, I caught on to my dad's maneuvering. He could never admit that he liked his daughter to be The Protester. Doing so would extinguish the flame that he had worked so hard to stoke.

His game: Hide the Pride.



Well anyway, GO JAZZ!





***Image from JoFreeman.com

Blenvy

Sometimes I get asked if I ever have blog envy.

Holy crap, yes.

Yes, yes and yes.

I can click on a blog, read a couple posts (or look at pictures) and in a few moments time be reduced to a big, boring, slouch-of-a-lazy-loser. And those thoughts will swim around in my head all day until I have pretty much decided that the author of the blog couldn't possibly be really All That.

She's probably really mean to her husband, I think as I make Chup dinner.

(I rarely make Chup dinner.)

I am in a better place these days since I learned that my blog envy (blenvy---you heard here first folks!) usually comes from reading a blog that emphasizes my insecurities. Like if someone is really good at something I wish I were really good at, like, I don't know, punctuation. Sometimes it's just better of me to leave those types of blogs alone until I can appreciate the blogger and the blog reader (me.)

I know that blenvy is rampant in the motherhood blog circles. I am not there yet, but I am sure that is a new level of the playing field. Just the other day, I was reading a blog of a new mother who had an adorable bassinet for her baby when I was just telling Chup that we should splurge on a Moses basket. Wicker and all! But just knowing that some newborns get a real Victorian bassinet made me feel bad for The Chief to be stuffed in a contraption made out of woven reed. But then I had to remember: MOSES WAS A PROPHET.

When I first started blogging (back in the day when there were seven of us) I encountered my first experience with blenvy. Her name is Kacy and she is the best. Not only was she a wife, mother, the wittiest blogger around, but she also had a teaching career in writing. It was too much. I'd read her posts (and sometimes her archives) and literally foam at the mouth. Funny. Oh so dang funny and contemplative and just perfectly irreverent. And she'd get billions of comments from blog worshipers (male and female) and sometimes other people that I admired. One time I left a comment which caused me so much anxiety (was it clever enough?) that I had gastric pains for a whole afternoon.

Anyway, finally I decided that I should stop reading because it was like being in touch with my failed dream. And just right around that time she became pregnant and was too sick to blog regularly and she went for months without posting. Coincidence? But being well-connected has it's advantages because Kacy happens to be a friend of my brother's from high school. So I asked Christopher and Lisa if they would ask Kacy and her equally amusing husband if they would consider coming to my birthday party last year. Would you believe that they came? We even conversed, and I felt really shy, and like my face was going to melt off, but they came!

This whole experience led me to come to peace with my blenvy. I stopped being jealous and started to be inspired. Ah yes, that feels much better. No need to be hating someone for something that they are talented at of which I am not. Either learn more, I say to myself, or click that little red X button at the top right corner of my screen.

Then I do myself a favor and think of one thing I am good at, like, I don't know, coming up with my own rules of punctuation.

Yes, that's it.

***Moses Basket from Sachi Organics

Thou Shalt Not Want Cool Stuff

In my vast repertoire of personal sins I can proudly state that covetousness is not a reoccurring transgression. I am mostly a content person who is rarely desirous for earthy treasures. If I see something I like I will buy it, therefore avoiding lingering wants and causing unhealthy distractions. If I can't afford it, I can usually make do with some modge podge and a some sturdy Masonite boards from Lowes.

But not today. Today was spent entertaining thoughts of a new house, book shelves, couches, bedding and artwork. I offered my soul to online shopping and filled virtual shopping baskets with wishful thinking.

As I ate lunch I studied my collection of paint chips, fantasizing about colors and matching textiles. My stash of design magazines resurfaced and I obsessed about playing with black-and-white patterns and poppy color. I even concentrated on house plants for a couple minutes. House plants. I wanted house plants with such urgency it was palpable.

The more I stewed the more sick I felt until I finally decided that my covetousness was making my pregnancy nausea worse. (Should you never have to contend with both covetousness and nausea in a single afternoon consider yourself fatefully blessed.) The only thing left to do was abandoned all day dreaming, or in otherwords become unconscious.

So I tried not to think about the Ikea entertainment center as I tried to take a nap.

And I tried not to think about the fluffy-white comforter from The Company Store as I tried again to take a nap.

Then I tried not to think about the green blankie with the orange birds for The Chief that Chup said was "too 'spensive" as I genuinely tried to take a nap.

Exhaustively I tried not to think about the awesome marmoleum floors that Azucar linked me to last week (oh the patterns!) as I really, really, really TRIED TO TAKE A NAP.

As a last ditch effort I opened my ol' scripts. After all, every Primary teacher I ever had testified that reading the word of God was a safe distraction from temptation. My Book of Mormon fell open to the part in 2nd Nephi where Nephi lets Jacob take the prophetic reigns for a stint. "Help me Jacob." I plead as I started to read.

His answer came in a friendly-but-boldly reminder:

" . . . Remember, to be carnally-minded is death and to be spiritually-minded is life eternal."

Ah yes.

Why waste one afternoon spoiling my soul with the carnal quilts of Anthropolgie? Or the lusty calls of the Target.com aisles? Seriously, have I done any good in the world today? Have I helped anyone in need? Have I cheered up the sad, or made others feel glad? (Let me finish . . .) If not I have failed indeed.

But don't you think that life eternal is having well-designed, gorgeously-colored possessions?

(Otherwise why am I striving to be so righteously good?)


Anyway, I am tagging Nie, Azucar, Egloria and ~J. For what, I don't know. It's just that everyone else is doing it and I hate to be left out.

Darcy and the Dark

Last night as we were eating Sunday dinner the power went out in my parent's home. It was a stormy evening, with the rain dripping fast from the sky and a wind that was blowing the bare branches around. Fortunately The Councilwoman had decided on a sturdy (lovely) candle for a centerpiece.

At first there was a collective round-table cheer, because what is more awesome than a storm-caused power outage? And moments later, when we were still sitting in the dark, I was entertained by everyone's individual reaction to the slight crisis:

Chup, obsessed with flashlights went right to the never failing "messy drawer" and fished out a flashlight. My mother wasn't certain of its origins, and when Chup turned it on it was dimmer than Huckabee's chances to win the Republican nomination. This was not satisfactory for Chup who then improvised by using the light of his blackberry pearl.

My father jumped up from the table to fetch wood from outside. He built up both fires in the living and family rooms. He no doubt relished in his ability to pull the pioneer spirit out of his ancestry in a pinch.

Vanessa, our practical British neighbor came to the back door asking The Councilwoman when the power was going to be restored. My mom replied,

"How would I know?

And Vanessa cried,

"You are on the city council, you can call someone."

So my mom (always ready to please a constituent) called the power company who answered and hung up the phone like this,

"We're working on it."

(So much for political pull.)

When Lucy asked Vanessa why the urgency, Vanessa explained,

"I'm watching Mr. Darcy on PBS!" Except it came out in her proper British voice making me want to watch Mr. Darcy too, not Elizabeth or Jane or Lady Catherine de Bourgh or that silly Kitty, but Mr. Daaahrcy.

Then the power came on!

We cheered.

Then the power went off!

Vanessa left in a huff.

Lucy, eager to watch the Oscar's red carpet entries, asked Ric to take her home. When he didn't respond she told him to play a joke on my mother, when he didn't respond again she flipped her hair and stomped off.

Meanwhile Ric just kept eating.

Grandma would yell, "Shut the door!" each time it was opened, and Grandpa Don left to go Home Teaching regardless.

And I.

I just sat there thinking (and hoping) in my sensationally-driven wonderment that this was a signal of The End. I calculated my food storage supply and considered a diet of oat cakes with a slice of dried prune. It also occurred to me that in a few months time I would have to give birth in meager circumstances . . . maybe by the light of a glow stick. The prospect was chilling to me. Both destitute and romantic. Apocalyptically endearing!



And when the power was restored, I was the only one a bit disappointed.

"Posing" a Question

Hair done today by my stylist Ashlee, obviously not by me.

In my head resides the once-suggested motto for Sister Parkin's tenure as Relief Society General President. It is this: We Can Do Hard Things.

Not an eloquent statement, agreed, but none-the-less one that gives me courage. It seems that my life has a pattern: I choose the easiest route only to find myself on the hard road. When will I learn that not only can I do hard things, but I must do them to become an enlightened human being? And how hard is hard enough?

These thoughts are my single standard: What is hard for me? Pregnancy sickness? Insomnia? A slight case of social anxiety?

What will be hard for me? Labor pains, sleepless nights and having my heart melted to its core? Losing post-baby weight? Making choices that will be unpopular? Holding to virtues?

Can I do no-medication labor, or (someday) a home delivery, or have my children home-schooled if I feel that these things are important for my family?

Or can I let things go that aren't meant to be mine?

Can I do hard things? Like send my first born to kindergarten, or let my adolescent child be knowingly-awkward, or see my son be married to someone not equally matched?

Can I be happy in a nursing home?

And sometimes when I let these thoughts get the better of my brain, I like to imagine a whole village full of women, generations before, of differing cultures, and knowing friends (even Sister Parkin herself) with their thumbs up, enthusiastically exclaiming, "Yes, yes you can!"


But, first I'd like to know why it is so hard for me to get my hair as straight as my stylist does. Because that is by far the hardest thing of all.


Tell Me: What is hard for you? How are you doing it? Brag, if necessary.

(It's always necessary.)

Ere I Left My Room This Morning

This morning I woke up with a prayer in my heart, "Please Lord, don't let me have post-vacation depression."

I am prone to that sort of emotion (aren't we all?) and today our real estate agent was coming over to assess our house for the market. There was cleaning and organizing and all sorts of putting-stuff together-ing and oh how I needed the energy. (Who doesn't?)

I am at the stage in my gestation where sleeping has become tiresome. It's my hips! Sleeping on my side--the obvious choice these days--makes my hips sore during the night. As my mother says "Something will always hurt." I am trying to be positive (and ever-grateful) but like Shakira, my hips don't lie. They hate the pressure of this expandable mortality. I've chosen to give up a good night's sleep for the next twenty years (or so I'm told) but it's a hard habit to break.

With my post-vacation depression looming, and a week of relentless sleep deprivation, today didn't look promising.

But I underestimated the power of prayer.

The sun blazed through the windows of the house making for the perfect opportunity to clean the glass. And because the light was making the dust apparent inside my home, I dusted and swept away all afternoon. I cleaned my craft table of paper debris from the mural I made for the nursery. The bed linens were changed as were the towels in the bathroom.

From the step-down lounge I noticed that my planter-box outside was actually budding with tulips. Last spring I thought I had yanked my entire spring flower collection in hopes of starting over. To my surprise some tulips survived my extermination. I promised (hand on heart) to them that I would do my best to see to their full bloomhood.

I also paid off a credit card, picked up the license plates for our new car and bought Lucy's birthday present. E-mails were written, phone calls returned and appointments made. Things were so rosy and productive that I took a moment to relax on the couch to have some citrus Vitamin Water. As I was in the process of doing such my neighbor's dog, Kasia (Kaysha? Caysia? Kayzia?) came into view on my front lawn.

Oh Kasia. The little white mutty dog with whom Ralph had his last affair. My heart even had room for love for her today. She wandered around the newly-exposed grass for awhile smelling and sniffing. I found myself admitting that she was actually quite cute.

This thought was followed Kasia's decision to defecate on my lawn.

No! I silently screamed, not able to get off the couch in time to knock on the window. No! Don't do that on our lawn! Our realtor is coming over, he'll be here any minute! Poo is not good for sales. Pleeeease no!

When Kasia was done she left her duty on the lawn like a secret valentine in second grade. Off she trotted down the street, head held high, going on as if she were the new dictator of Cuba.

I thought for a moment about how well the day had gone so far, how blessed I had been to feel energy in my bones, only mildly sick, but I knew that picking up Kasia's poo was going to ruin my lovely day. Mostly because it would induce vomiting. I sat for awhile deciding what to do.

"I can't do it Lord." I prayed out loud.

Opening my eyes from my simple prayer I noticed that Kasia was back, sniffing our lawn again. She circled around and around until she found her coiled surprise. And to my utter amazement, she ate her entire feces. My prayers were answered. All of them.

"Thank you Lord." I responded.

It's the small things, you know?

My Pregnant Palate Needs Your Help

From the beginning of this blog until this current writing I have gone through a food philosophy journey. Meat eater, lacto-ovo vegetarian, vegan, lacto-vegetarian, chronic fast-er etc. One might think I have culinary schizophrenia, and perhaps I do (but I'd prefer to be called sophisticatedly open minded).

In truth, I loved most my vegan adventure for reasons too personal for a public blog. But I don't think I could ever be vegan again, just like I'll never be 27 again, but shoot it was fun while it lasted.

After reading a very enlightening book Intuitive Eating just shortly before I became pregnant, I realized that I didn't need to be a labeled eater, just a happy one. Intuitive Eating is all about natural processes that emulate the finickiness in children (which we try to force out with our insistence at the dinner table, the "two more bites" syndrome). Anyway, after I read this book I prayed to know if it was true, then I decided to live by it's teachings (why not? It worked with the Book of Mormon).

Intuitive Eating was a process I needed to learn before my pregnancy because suddenly I was craving food that I once abhorred. Like ice cream. And cold cereal. And if I didn't know that it was acceptable to give my body what it wanted then I'd be really miserable, whereas now I'm almost-tolerably miserable (mixed with a heap of grateful).

With this new pregnancy palate I feel so uneducated. Having shunned 75% of the food available to me for one reason (not organic) or another (too acidic) I feel like I've missed out on experimentation. I am hoping that if I list some of the foods that I've considered recently there will be someone out there who can enlighten me about brands, textures, tastes and temperatures. Or whatever.

My recent conversions:

Fruit snacks -because I now need to be able to make it to Sunday School at church (I am the new lucky 14-15 year-old teacher) and I see that it is all the rage with kids these days. Cheerios are so yesteryear. Hold the fructose corn syrup. I'd like mine really juicy.

Granola Bars -for when I get sick in the night. I prefer mine with peanuts or peanut butter, but hate the acid-in-the-mouth tastes of Quaker. Actually, I think the Quaker bars are crap. And, I will take that to my grave. The Kashi ones are too grainy for three am. I am looking for more of a smooth sensation. Don't fail me.

Cold Cereal -I love Oh's. Oh my argyle socks do I love Oh's! But besides the fact that they are hard to find, the crunchiness chews up my mouth with every bowl full. I hate tender-in-the-mouth. Again, I like anything peanut butter-ish. For the fiber (I heart regularity) I can eat a shredded-wheat type cereal as long as it doesn't taste like barn.

Artisian Bread -it was always about the honey whole wheat, but now I've found that a love exists between me and a crusty baguette. I need to know what I've been missing here.

Rich Desserts -tell me more. I've been so cruel to myself.

Ice Cream -I found that an occasional ice cream cone will subdue my sicky. On a hot tip from my Mother-in-Law Honey I tried the creaminess of the Arctic Circle. It was good unto me. One time I even had them dip it in that waxy chocolate! Where else might I try?

Sour Candy - I've dabbled in Warheads and experimented with Sour Patch Kids. I can handle the hard core, so don't waste my time with Lemonheads.

If you belong to any of these culinary clubs would you so kindly take time to give a gal a suggestion or two? And if you can't, will you call your mom and see if she can help? And also, if you just read this list and are worried about my health, please know that I only eat these foods in moderation. Most of the time I eat ice.

CJ and C Jane

Photo courtesy of More Caffiene, Please.

My favorite character in all of blogdom is the wickedly funny little CJ, son of my dear friend Jamie a la Boise. CJ has a rampant obsession with trash, discusses human body parts with his fellows, and actively proposes dog food where others use Parmesan cheese.

But his latest adventures deal with his desire to wear his daddy's underwear. If you've seen his daddy, as I have, you will wonder, like I do, how CJ manages to support such a large garment without using a bundle of safety pins. 'Cause CJ's daddy is like this big. Bigger than your daddy for sure, maybe even bigger than The Chief's daddy.

This confession of CJ's has only endeared me more to the sparky guy, for I too like to wear my daddy's underwear at night. This ritual started shortly after my belly started to expand. One evening the thought occurred that perhaps daddy's undies would constrict less while tossing and turning. It's true, wearing the over-sized undies is like sleepy on a soft, pillowy-like cloud of fluffy. Almost like dozing bare na-ked.

For the first few months I took comfort in the fact that Chuppy's cuddly cottony undies were always going to be the size of a tent. That I could live through out this gestation feeling breezy in the nighttime hours. Husband agreed, and started to set out his undies on the dresser for me to change into right before I retired. A sweet, serene solution.

Only last night daddy's undies fit me. THEY FIT ME. The bottoms felt snug on my legs. The waist didn't drop to my lower hip area. My belly pressed up against the thin white top. I looked over at Chup to see if he had lost weight. No, indeed the man was still the size of Merlin Olsen, with his LA Rams career physique. The truth is . . . I don't need to spell it out. Okay, I will spell it out:

I am a five-foot-three-inched woman sharing the same size underwear as my six-foot-five-inched husband.

I am at a loss. Is it the three am cereal bars? The dark chocolate truffles? Could it be my rage for sour candy when I watch Chup play Project Gotham 4? Heavens! I am not stupid enough to think that this is all baby. The boy doesn't even weigh a pound yet. Ounces! Friends! Ounces still!

In due time this will probably happen to CJ. One day, when he's grown a foot or two, he'll be asking to borrow his daddy's khakis (no safety pins needed), and when that day comes there will be much back-slapping and man-chuckling.

And I will be happy for them.

Chuckabee

Dear Mr. Huckabee,

What on earth makes you think that your endorsement by this man will do anything for a decent voter like me?

Come on.

Politically,
c jane

P.S. On the other hand, if you could do something about the war so that I don't have to read sad posts like this one from my friend then we could work something out . . .

In the Bleak Mid-Winter

Tonight, as we were coming home from a New Year's Day dinner, I noticed our Christmas tree laying like a cold carcass next to our curb. Earlier in the day, I undressed it and Chup hauled it outside where the Provo Christmas tree clean-up crew could find it, and take it to where all bygone Christmas trees go . . . heaven. Seeing my once-beautiful white fir tree all naked and pale on the side of the unforgiving road made for a harsh realization.

The holiday vacation is over.

It went out with a bang last night as my family gathered to shoot fireworks and eat cheese fondue at Page's. Earlier, Lucy and Ric came over to fine-tune their Rock Band skills and drink bitter not-wine. Chup and I kissed at midnight, or sometime around there, and spent the few first moments of 2008 listening to Mika's "Love Today" joined by a crowded street of related revelers.

But tonight, as we watch the Sugar Bowl (go Bulldogs!) Chup and I are quiet. We know what tomorrow means. Just like Santa comes in the night on Christmas Eve, so visits the Spirit of Back-to-Work tonight leaving only the present of a cold, long January.

Why do we all set ourselves for it?

Granted I don't work, but it pains me to see those who have to go back to the office, or school, or even the cafeteria. For me, in my life, it means that I can no longer put off my laundry and my Holiday Cash Reserve is as dry as the winter wind (do you have some good chapstick?) mingled with morning vomit breaks with simultaneous loss of bladder control. Awe-some.

But this is c jane enjoy it. Not c jane complain. And so I look to my new little mug set, the very style that I've drunk out of in European cafés, to save my cheerless soul. I like to warm up vanilla soy milk, melt a couple teaspoons of dark chocolate, pour into the blender and frappe (now a verb!) until there is a thick foam. Then drink. (P.S. I am too practical to use the word "savor" where "drink" will do.)

And there is also the fact that Chup gifted me with a shiny, tight keyboard-synth a few days before Christmas. I intend to practice every hymn in the LDS hymn book this year until I can zip them out on demand. I have a feeling one day that I'll be called as the Primary Pianist and it's never late to start practicing. Maybe tomorrow I will start with There is Sunshine in My Soul . . . with a Calypso beat! Why not? Okay!

Lastly, I also have a new calendar for the kitchen, a collection of Waterhouse's finest. Nothing stimulates romanticism like a passionate Pre-Raphaelite. Chup has had a long love affair with his Lady of Shalott.

Do you think I look like her? Be honest.

Well, it is time for bed. I retire hoping that everyone also had such a wonderful holiday vacation that it is equally hard to see tomorrow arrive. And if you live in Arizona have some fresh squeezed orange juice in a mug for me . . . and I'll raise to you a cheer for my heaven-bound Christmas tree.

Sonnets From the c januese

If someone wrote a post purely for the sake of bragging about their husband I don't know if I would read it. Should I read it? Is that kind of poetic devotion for public consumption? Certainly the Brownings felt that such love must be declared, Elizabeth went so far as to "count the ways."
I, too want to "count the ways" that I love my Chup, but you--a voyuerish third party person-- don't have to read it. You many not want to read it either. And besides, it might get racy at the end . . .

FRIDAY
Chup read my script for the ward Christmas concert like a voice from heaven. "This evening we will first sing before we eat" he announced over the pulpit. After that he introduced each musical number (my favorite being "I Saw Three Ships" a tuba solo) with his booming God-like projection. I purposely wrote in a line from Luke 2 because I wanted to hear him say "And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid." He annunciated it so romantically (in a sacred-text sort of way) that I could've written "And, loopy, doopy, loppy lop . . ." and he would've made it sound just as wonderful.

During the program, I thought about The Chief and how he is a product of ours. How he is the personification of our connection. The representation of our eternal hope. And I thought about how nice it will be for The Chief to have bedtime stories told in Daddy's deep wide voice.

That night is started to snow.

SATURDAY
Chup baptized our friend eleven-year-old Katie Larsen (formerly of the Larsen compound) in her Orem Stake Center. Of course it was an honor for us to be a part of Katie's big day. Before the service began, Chup practiced baptizing Katie so that she'd know what to expect. "I will hold your wrist so that you can plug your nose before you go under." Katie appreciated the tip. "Okay!" she replied.

After Katie was fully immersed, and we had sung the last verse of "I am a Child of God," we said our good byes to Katie's friends and family with peaceful spirits. Leaving the church we noticed a stronger storm had settled over the valley and visibility was close to zero. Dutifully my husband shoveled the church walks so that everyone could safely get to their car. At that point, snow flakes the size of potato chips were dripping from the sky.

It is Chup's passion in life to drive on snowy, slick roads. We took the freeway home and passed other cars creeping in the right lane. After Chup drove our yellow car safely to our front driveway, I sat in the warm car while he--still in his white shirt and tie--shoveled all the walks leading to the front door. When all was cleared I was ushered gingerly inside.

That evening we ate chocolates and drank Inca Cola. Straight up from the bottle.

SUNDAY
Chup made potato latkes with beer. This was per my request as I find celebrating a bit of Hanukkah with every Christmas is the best of both worlds. He peeled, shredded and drained the potatoes. He added the beer, potato yeast and diced onion. He smashed, grilled and fried each latke until it was golden brown. It took a table of MD, Kentucky, Phun and me to devour a warm tray. Chup thought they were too salty. I thought they were juuuuust right.

After dinner we took a stroll downtown with Phun to scout out the candy windows. Though it had stopped snowing, we dodged sizable icy snowblocks while crossing the streets. At one candy window the display light was off making it hard to see. Just as Phun started to express disappointment Chup produced a flashlight from his puffy coat. We were able to view the first-place candy window a licorice-Mike n' Ike portrayal of the Y mountain and two kids on a hot air balloon. It was pretty impressive, but not as impressive as Chup having a flashlight in his pocket for the conceivable "just in case."

That night we . . . well, never you mind what we did.

IN CLOSING
Chup, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
1. Booming voice
2. The Chief
3. Honor
4. Kindness
5. Driving Abilities
6. Shoveling Abilities
7. Inca Cola
8. Potato Latkes
9. Flashlight
10. Mad Hot Skillzzz
Oh yes, and . . .
I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!---and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

A snowstorm picture taken by Chup midnight Saturday.

I Voted, Did You?

Yes I did my civic duty and voted yesterday.

Voting is the absolute scariest thing we are asked to do as American citizens. There is so much pomp and circumstance involved (also: Senior Citz who run the place) and processes. I just get so anxious every year.

But when I don't vote I have the wrath of the Councilwoman to answer to, and lo, that is worse than voting. Behold, worse than the icy cold fingers of Beelzebub.

So I stood in line with my sour candy in hand because I am still apt to puke any moment or even at any moment's moment's moment. A man with two monkeys (or were they children?) in a stroller were in line in front of me. The monkeys kept jumping in and out of the stroller, the wheels rocked back-and-forth making it so I was constantly dodging the death of my toes. Why is it that dads don't realize these things? Oops my monkeys are annoying that pale faced anxious woman who keeps digging in her purse for sour candies. Perhaps I should tell them to STOP.

I vote mothers are better with child recognizance.

A really tall bald guy in a black peacoat stood behind me. I think he was somewhat well-known in these parts but I dared not look up. Oh, in case you are thinking that it was Chup behind me, it was not. Chup doesn't vote because HE IS CHUP! But the man was reading a paperback. Good idea tall baldy famous guy!

When it was finally my turn to sign in I was asked to state my name, turn my head and cough. Voting and a physical? Anyway, I had to sign on a specific line with a pencil. As details go, there were two identical pencils on the sign-in desk. Would you believe me if I told you that I picked up the wrong pencil (hence there is a wrong and right pencil for these things) and the poll-mistress let me know she wasn't happy about that incident.

"That is my pencil and I need it to write something down left of your name." So I generously gave her back the yellow number 2 pencil and picked up the other yellow number 2 pencil and signed my humbled name.

Conflict avoided, wipe brow and carry on.

I was then given a card with a chip, while a finger pointed me to the front of the room where a nice little lady in a denim apron waved at me. For a second I thought I was at Santa's workshop. The lady escorted me to a computerized poll (fancy!) and proceeded to give me eighty instructions all at once. I mean, I get it, you've had to explain this five million times today, but hold-up, what do I do first again?

Put the card in the machine. Vote, print, back, redo, sigh, look around, machine makes noises, cast ballot, get card back, swallow, pray, give card to the man by the door, get sticker.

So much work for one lousy sticker. And that is all I got too because not one of my votes won.

Then I went out into the parking lot and heaved so hard I got a headache. A kid with a skateboard curiously watched me. Then he took off due east.

Being a (pregnant) American is so hard sometimes.

A Date To Remember

Have you met Lois? Man, her posts are funny. You'll agree with me that these days, with Iran looking inevitable and, gulp, a potential female president in our future, we could all use some more humor. You know who you are.

As I was enjoying the wit of Lois the other day, I noticed on her side bar that she had me linked as "See Jane Puke." Did that ever get a chuckle out of me. A chuckle and then awake up call because now I am insecure. Have I complained too much? Not enough? Just right?

Anyway, if Lois is reading my blog just to hear about my pukiness than I think I owe it to her to announce the following news:

This morning I did in fact puke.

For those of you at home with tallies, this was my first time at pregnancy puking. And it happened so fast. I went to feed Ralph and then, (how could I help this next line?) I actually ralphed myself. Conveniently I aimed at one of Ralph's dig holes in the backyard. Only Ralph thought I was serving him a second breakfast . . . worm style.

You know what? It wasn't actually half bad. I've had many, many, many opportunities to vomit in the past few months and I've talked myself out of each one (Tahiti if you'll recall.) All it took was one time and now I am over my fear of the disgorge.

Thanks Lois for holding my hand on this one. You always were a good neighbor.

And your husband's art is my favorite.

In Touch

In 2004: Grandma K, Chup, Me (with bangs...never again) and Grandpa K

I am not a first-time-pregnant woman who keeps a full time job, or continues lunch dates or even attempts church. I am sick and that is about it.

I've heard (rather constantly) from mothers-to-be who prefer to continue on with their lives while feeling like vomit could, at any point, escape their stomach and splatter out to the biosphere simply because it kept their minds busy. I tried that approach for the sake of the ever-true scientific process. As it holds, this hypothesis doesn't compute for me. Me? I stay close to home, mostly because I don't have a full time job, pressing lunch dates or, as of recently, a calling in the ward. I do have a bag of cinnamon bears, and as I discovered last week, a cure of my own.

Last week I ventured on a plane to Arizona to visit my sister Stephanie and her troupe of Four Delights. You'd think after all the advice I've been given ONE person could've told me NOT to fly when pregnant and sick. That was bad news right out of the headlines.

I did bring with me a pair of wrist bands with little beads in them. The bead presses on the reflexology point that connects to nausea. My lovely Lani brought them down from Idaho before my trip, and as she placed them on me I instantly felt better. When I told her so, she replied "Oh that's just because I am touching you. Touch always makes you feel better." And then her friend Rebecca put her cold fingers on the back of my neck. "This will feel good too." she said.

And it did.

When I was safe at the Rancho Nielson-Amigo in Arizona, I was put to work on the orange couch while Claire and Jane took turns brushing my hair and using a small paint brush and an imagination to "do my make-up." I felt like I did in third grade when the girls in the class would braid each other's hair during Mrs. Frazier's story time. Having your hair touched just after late recess made for the most wonderful sensation. I've tried to teach Chup how to duplicate it, but I'm afraid the male species will never twist a french braid so tenderly.

Steph did her part in feeding me every fifteen minutes. When she was in the kitchen whipping up a seven-fruit smoothie (or something wonderful such as) I'd curl up with baby Giggs and kiss his loaded cheeks until I felt better.

For his part, one night two-year-old Oliver snuggled with me in my guest bed and sang me songs. When he had exhausted his last "Woody" tune (You got a friend in me. You got a friend in me.) He demanded "Do the tickles" which meant that I was supposed to lightly tickle his legs and arms until he was out. I woke up the next morning with Oliver's hand on my face, covering my right eye.

That morning, to my surprise, I experienced no morning sickness.

The same morning I got a call from Chup telling me that Grandma K had passed away. I have written about Grandma K before, mostly about her potato salad which was the real reason I married Chup. Look, I didn't even like potato salad before, that should tell you something.

Shortly after I arrived back in Utah, Chup and I headed up to Idaho to be with the family. I worried that the car ride would be disastrous, but Chup held my hand the whole way while I ate about fourteen bagels in between the miles.

Dear bagels,
I love you.
Love, me.

In the days that followed we saw lots of family and friends. One thing I've grown to l