China Anniversary

Jumping from one family tree...

into another!

Pretty good yield, huh?

Traditionally, the 20th anniversary is the China Anniversary. You either buy yourself a new set of china or go on a trip to China. We chose instead to buy a leather sectional and have a spa weekend in Scottsdale. Tradition, be hanged.

I feel like I should write something sappy, but if you look through the archives, I've said it all before. All I can say is that I can't believe it's been 20 years. There are lots of things in life that have been hard for me, but marriage has not been one of them. I'm lucky.

**Current photo by Christie...wish she'd been around for the original shots. Early '90s wedding photography should be a federal crime.

Promise

Blogging, right now, is kind of like the pretty round bronzed mirror that looked so good in the entry of our old house but is now sitting dustily on a stack of cardboard boxes. I love it. I miss it. But I'm just not quite sure where it fits in the new place.

I have many blog-able thoughts and moments during the course of my day, but I haven't quite figured out when and how to get them all down.

My days are so busy right now. I don't know why. So many of the things that used to take up my time--half-day kindergarten, early morning Seminary, driving along winding, country roads to get anywhere--are no longer part of my routine. I've found a handful of new friends, but my social calendar is still pretty empty.

I guess it's the four kid thing that keeps me hopping. When they're around, they need food and help with homework and (unfortunately) a whole lot of sibling refereeing. When they aren't around, I'm buying their food, washing their clothes and making copies on the Riso machine for their teachers.

And what's taking up the rest of my time? As Dr. Seuss might put it... "Oh the house. Oh the house. Oh the house, house, house, house. That's the one thing she's doing. The house, house, house, house."

New houses are a lot of work. I have to keep reminding myself that Rome wasn't built in a day and that it took years before I was happy with all the paint colors and window treatments in our old place. We went ages without a finished basement and eons before Brad built the back patio. In fact, it was not the house of my dreams at all until we put it on the market last spring.

But, in my old age, I'm a lot less patient. I know how I want things to look. And I want them to look that way. Now. I drive myself a little crazy. Hanging things up, taking things down. Buying things. Returning things. And I'm still learning my way around town, so usually each errand takes twice as long as it should. See? Low-stress and inexpensive and eco-friendly!

Brad has been extremely patient with this whole nesting process. I mean, let's face it. The guy, if left to his own devices, would live in a house with one MASSIVE tv and a lone, comfortable (but hideous) black leather chair. A bed with a mattress so firm it'd need a medical prescription with no designer throw pillows. The walls would all be white without a single nail hole or picture hook to be found. There would be no toile in his world.

So, Babe, this post is dedicated to you and your generosity of spirit (and checkbook). I promise once all the drawer pulls are installed and the curtains hung, I will return to my former low-key, easy-going self. Yes, really.

Also, I promise, more blogging. More often. I miss it.

On Moving and Mothers

This month, whenever I start feeling overwhelmed by the whole house-selling-house-buying-moving-far-away thing, I stop and try to channel my mother-in-law. She is a woman who knows how to move. Literally. And she's done it over and over again.

My mother-in-law with the beginnings of her darling family...circa 1970?

Brad's mom moved dozens of times around the country while her kids were little and not-so-little. His dad often had to start working in the new location, leaving her alone to raise the kids and sell the house. Of course, at the same time, she was usually Relief Society President for church and/or pregnant with another baby and probably sewing all her children matching Easter outfits.

(Also, making homemade oatmeal cookies so good that they cannot ever be replicated. I am a pretty decent cookie baker, but to this day, every time I attempt the oatmeal variety, Brad gets this faraway look on his face and wistfully says, "Y'know my mom used to make the BEST oatmeal cookies. You should get her recipe." Of course, I have been using her recipe for at least sixteen years. But they just never quite measure up to the oatmeal cookies of his past. Nana is seriously that good.)

And even more amazing than the cookies is, that even with the constant upheaval of his childhood, Brad doesn't remember his mom ever yelling at the kids or crying in her bedroom or giving his dad the silent treatment.

No wonder he finds our marriage a little puzzling.

Talking last night, Brad was reminiscing about all the fun he had growing up in such a mobile family. Watching the movers bring in his boxes of toys and setting up his new room. Taking his bicycle right off the truck and riding around an unfamiliar neighborhood, hoping to find kids his age. It was always an adventure. Always fun. And I credit his mom for making it such a positive part of his life.

Books, bangs and wallpaper--Mom and me

My own mother didn't have to uproot her family nearly as often. But she did teach me the art of making a home. Mom had an artistic flair for decorating. When I was little, she always seemed to be in the middle of some amazing home project--sanding an old table, tying a quilt or looking at wallpaper sample books. Mom really enjoyed wallpaper.

My childhood home was unique. None of my friends' houses had family names carved onto the mantlepiece. None had moms who designed furniture and got featured in remodeling magazines. None had walls covered with maps and menus and matchboxes from around the world. Or Swiss murals painted across the whole back of the house. Our home was different and interesting and surprising. Just like my mom.

When circumstances changed, and Mom had to move from her dream home to a less-glamorous model, she made the best of her surroundings. She made sure the important things were in place--a big kitchen table, a piano with lots of sheet music, comfy chairs and plenty of bookshelves. And, of course, wallpaper in every room.

Mom is great at analyzing spaces. When she came to help me after I'd had the twins, she took a quick look around and told me exactly where to put changing pads and diaper pails and dirty clothes' baskets. She sorted and outfitted my car so that I could grab everything I'd need without unbuckling my seatbelt. A week with Mom can be an intense organizational orgy.

This Mother's Day, as I attempt to deconstruct one nest and start feathering another, I am grateful for mothers who have taken me under their wings. Just being in their homes and watching them live has taught me tremendously.

I may not make great oatmeal cookies or have an eye for wallpaper, but I DO know that a loving mother can bless an entire family. And I am doubly blessed.

Happy Mother's Day!

Things Are Moving

This is really happening.

Our house sold in a quick ten days. I didn't realize how stressed I had been about the whole thing until I signed my name to accept the offer. Suddenly the phrase weak with relief took on a completely new meaning.

And, in the meantime, I put twenty years' worth of marital trust into Brad's capable hands and allowed him to choose a house for us. All. By. Himself.

I'm not totally crazy. It's just that the market has been picking up and Brad had found THE ONE on his last trip out. We had to act fast. So we did. I guess it's meant to be.

He loves it because:

1. It was a good deal.
2. It has a big backyard which is completely unfinished and will thus allow him creative expression in creating his own desert oasis.
3. There are plenty of bedrooms, including one for the mother-in-law. On a separate floor.
4. It's a "project" house, which means lots of trips to Home Depot.
5. Most importantly: a man-sized garage. Big enough to live in. (Which of course he will if I hate the new house.)

The Seventh Day

Last Monday night, Sam was giving the Family Night lesson. He had chosen to teach about The Creation and was delivering a stellar oration, complete with visual aids.

"First, Jesus separated light and darkness. He called them day and night. Next, He made the land and the oceans." And so on. Sam knew it all. I felt so proud. I sat back, feeling humbly superior, having raised such a knowledgeable child.

Finally, Sam got to the seventh day. He was stumped. He looked at Luke. He looked at me. He looked at his picture. The earth was complete with plants, animals, handsome Adam and beautiful Eve. What was left?

I pulled him close and whispered helpfully in his ear. Sam's face lit up. Of course! He knew what came next. He stood up straight and held his picture high.

Clearing his throat, he spoke in that very distinctive Sammy voice. "And last came the seventh day. And on the seventh day, HE GOT ARRESTED."
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I know Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest, but in some ways, it is the hardest part of my week. All that public parenting. All those expectations --freshly ironed white shirts, homemade rolls for dinner, long afternoon naps. (Translate into semi-rumpled Rugbys, applesauce oatmeal muffins and blogging on an unmade bed, then you'll have an accurate picture of my Sabbath today.)

Mormon moms do a lot to make Sundays special and a lot of the time we do it alone. Sometimes it's because our husbands don't want to come to church with us. Sometimes it's because they have to go early and stay late for meetings. Sometimes they are sitting on the stand at church while we wrestle the children on the benches and give them a Sabbath-appropriate version of the stink eye.

Today Brad has been gone all day, working with an inner-city congregation. He left at 8:00 am with his lunch packed into a cooler. He probably won't be home until it's time for dinner. I hope he likes applesauce muffins.

His Spanish scriptures got dusted off this morning and he's hoping his conversational vocab isn't too rusty. I am proud of him. He is a dedicated guy. I'm grateful. But it's still hard being the one left behind.

All I know is that it's all worth it. The goldfish crackers ground into the speckly meetinghouse carpet. The Mary-Janes and Oxfords that seem to shrink overnight. The rooster-tail cowlick that just won't stay down on Sunday morning.

I know it's worth it because my kids have a whole buncha grown-ups who pray for them and teach them. And, when I'm not wrestling small people into submission on a church bench, I can look around the chapel and see a friend in every pew. I know it's worth it, because I am a believer and this is what we do.

Just remind me next Sunday.

Brad's New Girlfriend

My husband has a new love in his life.

And I couldn't be happier.

Who cares if she's European, ubersexy and a whole lot younger than I am? This little cutie will do things for Brad that I haven't in years. Things like taking him to the airport at four in the morning and telling him which way to turn on a roadtrip to Lancaster County. She'll warm his buns anytime he likes.

The thing is, Brad has been completely faithful to a solidly built Japanese gal for the past eleven years. (Well, except for a brief infatuation with the petite, vintage German number. But she was expensive and high maintenance and mostly pouted in the garage, so she doesn't really count.)

Anyway, Ms. Solid has been good to us, but she's starting to show her age. Her rear end is sagging and she makes embarassing noises. I told Brad I don't want to be seen with her in public.


And, after an absolutely agonizing selection process, he found his new love just in time for his birthday.

Sooooooo much better than the gift he got last year.