I Don't Quite Know How To Say This...

...but I think that I am done. Done, but what a good time I had!

Not really sure what the future holds for me, but I am grateful for the friends I have made, the conversations we have had, and the things that I have learned on this adventure. But my life has shifted a bit, and blogging isn't fitting in as well as it used to, and I don't think I should try and make it fit. There may be a time in the future when I have an internet presence again, and if I do you will surely know, but for now...

toodles!

Lessons

I have been a Relief Society teacher for about a year and a half now. I do the Teaching For Our Times bit, which suits me just fine. I am assigned a conference talk or three to pull my material from and I teach on the fourth Sunday of the month. It's been pretty great... last month was Elder Faust's talk, and the way it was scheduled, I taught it shortly after his death; it was like a tribute. This month the talks were Elder Uchtdorf's and Elder Nelson's talks, both of which were about repentance, and Saturday before was Yom Kippur.... how cool is THAT!?

On the off weeks I find myself substitute teaching in the Primary, as often as not. So much so, that we actually have a place to put the various lesson manuals to be returned, so if the teacher of whatever class comes for it and I'm not here, Dadguy knows where it is. Or vice versa, he subs a lot too.

I love this calling. I love the Relief Society, heck... the women teach most of the lessons for me; all I have to do is come up with the right questions to ask 'em, and off they go. The only problem is this "fourth Sunday" bit. The fourth Sunday has been, with one solitary exception, the day that I'd like to take off from church, and stay home to quietly bleed to death. That one exception was last month, and I exulted in the freedom of over-emotional teaching! I hollered "hosanna!" and figured that my body was resetting itself, and that there will BE no more standing in front of a roomful of women when I'd rather be hanging out at home with a hot pad. YAY!

Naw, I was back to my usual situation this month... and it just isn't fair.

I think it's part of the way the Lord keeps me humble. Or perhaps, my body is a traitor. On the lighter side... it sure does explain me getting all het up and pissy last week. On the darker side... it's official; even if I get pregnant this cycle, I will be 39 when I give birth. I really had wanted to be done before that.

... and maybe that is the real lesson here: patience.

Fiddle Dee Dee!

I said I wasn't gonna let this place become a "weight-loss" blog.

I said it, and I lied.

Because the act of figuring the points and chronicling every bite that goes in to my mouth is consuming (heh...consuming) , and I didn't have a super long attention span to begin with.

As of my weigh-in last night, I am down 5.8 pounds. While this is great and all, I don't quite know what to do with my excitement. I'm not sure how I want to go about celebrating my losses, because.... on the one hand, I'm working hard for it. On the other hand, I don't want the Chaos Girls to get some skewed picture in their minds about how "yukky" fat is and all the blahblahblah that comes with body image.

I intend to lose every ounce that I can before I get pregnant. How do I talk this up? What do I say in front of the girls that will convey to a one/three/five year old that mama is working hard and achieving goals (because I am proud of myself)... without planting seeds of pain for later in life? Without adding to the stigma and body-shame that our culture and media so gleefully heaps upon girls?

So far I have kept it on the down-low (not that hard... it's been two whole weeks, whoopee), but if it takes me a while longer to get pregs, and it could easily take months, I could be at this for a while. Months of Weight Watchers will mean going down a size or two... noticeably smaller. Smaller enough that a kid might eventually notice. There will also be after the future, theoretical pregnancy. There will also be my whole freaking life... The body, she will not let her layers of comfort and insulation go quietly into the night, this will be a fight that will become noticeable in many ways.

Why am I stressing about something that has not even happened? Well, it's what I do. It's what I do best! I am the mama.

So. My best idea is to find an athletic goal to work toward. Something to point all my excitement and sense of pride at. Something that I can do, or do quantifiably better when I am shrunken down. A thing that I can say that I am working toward, rather than a certain size of pants... it's what I would want for my girls. It should be what I want for me.

I admire but do not envy marathoners, triathletes, and endurance sport folks. Is cool what they do, but I don't really think it's the bag for me. What I admire and envy are the women who can fight. No small surprize that two of my biggest bloggirl crushes are MamaD and Elizasmom, I don't just love them and their brains... I love what they can do. They are queens of Tae Kwon Do and Karate respectively and I thinks that's the bomb-diggity, yo!

"Oooooo-oo, I wanna be like You-oooo!
I wanna WALK like you TALK like you, tooo-ooo!
You see it's TRUE-oooo
A mom like ME-eeee
Can learn BE
Baaa-aaad A@@ TOOO-oooo!"
(sung to the tune Human Too, from the Jungle Book)

But then, everything gets oogied up with this last kid that I am trying for; the whole unknowable factor of the timing combined with the known factor of just how truly vile pregnancy makes me feel. Wuff! Plus the obvious: no weightloss during pregnancy, ya twidjit! But there is no question of postponing this pregnancy. Not for me, and I'll tell you why.

Only not today. Tomorrow.

I gotta get on the laundry. Poor Dadguy lodged a formal complaint last night, as he scraped the two baskets worth of clean, unfolded clothing off the bed for the ten ka-spillionth time, just so's he could sleep. Gotta take some pity on the man, although, truth be known... it's been weeks since he has run out of clean underpants. Huzzah to me!

Retreat and Surrender

This weekend past was a Women's Retreat for our congregation. This meant that we would be gone on an overnight trip up past Heber, at a fairly posh campground owned by the LDS church. Did this same thing last year. Enjoyed it thoroughly. Last year.

Last year, however, I opted out of the ropes challenge course that was scheduled for the Saturday morning part of the retreat, and went on a leisurely hike with a friend. We were hardly the only ones who chose not to go, and I didn't feel badly about my decision. There was not a ton of pressure to do the challenge course; it was just one of several activities scheduled for the day. Cut to this year, and we got booted from the campground early, as they were opening the grounds for an open house... something they had failed to mention to the women in our congregation who had booked the camp. The ropes course turned out to be the only activity, and everyone was expected to go, and at least hang out.

Until ya got there, and then the course instructors took over, and the option to not participate became practically a doctrinal issue.

I jest, but only a little.

I was so not up for what followed, but then, I had not been up for what preceded either. That morning before breakfast, there was a bit of a stir, because one of the women in the cabin I was staying in(there were about fifteen per cabin), had gotten up and moved out of the cabin around four in the morning, declaring to her friend that a few hours of sleep would be better than none and she just couldn't take all the snoring anymore. I didn't think too much of it, even though I know that I do snore, as I was clear across the rather large room from her, and every time I had awoken that night, I could hear one or two other women snoring softly. Sister Gottagetsomesleep made sure to announce, to the entire seated breakfasting group, that I was the one who's snoring had caused her to move to another cabin. When other cabin mates objected and qualified, she took particular care to point out that it absolutely was me. I was mortified, but I tossed my head and let it slide on by.

I know her. She is a deeply unhappy and bitter woman, but I don't think she meant to hurt me in any particular way. Perhaps I am too good at my joking and capable woman facade, and she felt like I could take a few hard digs. Maybe some days I could just shrug this kind of thing off, but that day, it hurt.

Cut to the ropes course:
The first thing to happen when we get there is a brief speech in front of what was known as the High Course. This included explaining about the belaying ropes, carribiners, harness rigs and other devices that would keep us safe; so long as we were a particular weight or under. And I am not. But it was OK, they explained... us fatties would still be able to do most of the other activities. That's not what they said, but please understand, that's how my sore heart translated the rest of what was said. Not that I was much interested in the humiliation of dragging myself up the small rocks pegged into the side of one huge tree trunk, sliding across a high wire, or rappelling down another equally intimidating tree. But to know that I would not be allowed even if I desired. Hurt.

The fun did not stop there, but my facade of spunky fat girl did not slip once, not even when I forced myself to do the "trust fall" thing, so as to not be the only one who didn't, and to set a good example for the nervous sixteen year old girl who was with us.

"See? Even the fat old lady can do it... they didn't drop her, they won't drop you!"

I made it till I got home and got in the shower; the heat and the water dissolving my will, and my resolve, and my defences. Poor Dadguy could only sit and hold the mewling wife that he had so bravely sent off the night before, in hopes of getting a refreshed and uplifted spouse back. Even still, to my horror, I cannot see the monitor to read my words as I type this. Each new activity that day was shame upon humiliation. The activity of writing it all down is almost as brutal. Why I am posting this is entirely beyond my ken, except I don't feel like keeping this garbage to myself anymore. Y'all, I am doing Weight Watchers, but this is the story that is shared when the teller is millions of sizes smaller than when these kinds of things happened. I am maybe five pounds down from two week ago, and staring at the very real possibility that I don't have what it takes to get it off or keep it off.

But I am also angry at the thoughtlessness that went in to this activity. There is one overnight retreat a year, and we are gone from our homes and responsibilities for less than 24 hours... this is the best thing they could come up with? I was definitely NOT the only woman who opted out of doing the High Course (or were opted out because of weight... I didn't ask), and not the only one who struggled with some of the other physical challenges posed by the "Group Activities."

I will not be doing this again next year even if I am the fitness freaking queen of the world. I think I will be kinder to myself, and just hang out with people who will be kinder to me, and do things that are actually uplifting and that I enjoy. Although I will be sorry to miss the fellowship and the getting to know you portions of the retreat, I just don't have the heart for this anymore.

Sunday Pic: Ick!

Note to girls: Please store your pieces of weather beaten brown sidewalk chalk elsewhere.

Thanks
-the mama

Lifting of the Siege

Still trying to work out the tempo of my life right now. There is a theme of restraint and control overlaying most of it. Trying to fit it all in, in the proper way.

I started Weight Watchers last week, and this first weeks weight-in went better than I had hoped. I was careful, don't get me wrong, but with the hospital visits shoved in there, which included a visit to the lovely cafeteria and the bakery products; I was afraid I was too distracted to stick with it. Not gonna drag y'all through a weight loss bloggery... but when I hit twenty pounds down... I'm throwin' myself a party and ya'll are invited. I figure an Internet party is the best way to go, no one will be tempted to bring dip or chocolate cake. Is safer.

Before anyone gets too excited, twenty pounds is just the leftovers plus, from pregnancy number Pearl. I will then still have fifteen each from Birdy and LaLa to answer for once those are gone. Plus the initial ten or so that I picked up in my first year of marriage, and is never gonna be documented how far I am from my goals even then.

heh.... yeah.

And then there is the revamping of the budget. Or perhaps it would be better described as the introduction of a budget for our finances. That should be a right fun party right there! Whee!

You know, I feel like we are digging out from under. Emotionally, physically, financially recovering from the long siege of stress from the uncertainty and fear surrounding Pearl's sickness, capped off with a month long pitched battle at PCMC. Stress that caused Dadguy and I to start picking at each other for the first time in our marriage, the house to crumble into epic levels of slime-ary, and an overabundance of tv watching for the kids.

I just hope that we can stay here for a while. I like it here, feels comfortable. And even though I don't adore structure and discipline so very, it is nice to have that illusion of control.

The End

Y'all, we have reached the end of Pearl's saga. Clean bill of health, and if she has any scrub-o-phobia left, any lab-coat-freakout? You cannot tell by watching her. She was a happy little trooper during todays tests, and we are done.

Done.

Time and Stuff

I have the same number of hours in a day that everyone else does. That's what they tell me, and yet I cannot seem to accomplish a crappin' thing except the basics, and Dadguy may question whether the basics are being met. You would question too, if I let you see the state of my house. But I won't, so keep your nosey little nosey-ness out.

And I know better than this. I served a mission for my church (LDS) back before I got married, and the Mission President was a big time-management guy. He was, in fact a time management pioneer, and a honcho lecturer guy for the Daytimer folks. He trained every one of his missionaries in the proper use of Daytimers, and I was a time management freak.

You would never know this to see me in action today.

Then again, perhaps the list of stuff that I want to accomplish is probably too long. Some stuff that I want to do.

• Write a novel
• write poetry again
  
• write lyrics for hymns
• write lyrics for songs
  
• paint
• learn to belt like Aretha
  
• learn Karate
• learn Kick Boxing
• learn Gracie Jiu-jitsu
• lose weight
• lose enough weight to run a credible mile or so
  
• learn french
• quilt
• travel to Europe and do a big old Art tour

hey, it's MY dream.

Angels to Comfort Her

First round of tests are complete, and there was none of the anticipated and promised sedation, anesthesia, or fear. A few tears were shed over the IV insertion, but she was happy to be distracted by The Tooth Book. We even had a couple of good laughs over making toothy faces at each other.

When we got to the CT room, the nurse let her roam and check stuff out while we put on a Barney video and discussed what would work best. It was decided that we would go with the minimum of restraints; little more than a lap belt, and a foam wedge on either side of her head. I lightly held her hands and she lay there, still and serene. They spent less than ten minutes getting their images, a few minutes to make sure they were viable, thirty seconds to slip the IV out of her hand and she was off the table. She walked out the door without a tear in her eye, as a stunned technician gave her some stickers and a toy dog as a prize for being so brave and still. He kept raving about how he had never seen anything like it.

I have. But I've seen a number of miracles.

Blacker or Slogger?

Am just not feeling it lately. I think I mighta been thrown off my stride with the false start for school. Or maybe the feeling that everything is "on hold" till I get that final bill of health for the Pearl-girl. Or the fact that I am "trying " for that last baby, and I am late again this month- yet pretty DARN sure that I am not in a "family way." Grrrrrr!

Now I must waste perfectly good money on a pee-stick to tell me something I already know (not pregs), so I can go do something I really don't want to do (Pearl's CT scans). Again... am helpless to not do it. Must.

And I have to do it before tomorrow night (first Weight Watchers meeting).

The good news? My mama rocks!

Seriously, you all had good advise and lovely comments for me, but my mom sent me an e-mail that fixed everything, or rather, brought me peace. The most pertinent section....

"That she will have angels to hold her hand....maybe even my mama who underwent months and months of very bad tests (although she was an adult who could be explained to). I know she would be there anyway. and granny great and all the rest from both sides of the family whom we have not met in mortality. Their hearts are turned toward you. Plus the comforter will be there . for Pearl and you. Be sure to get a blessing from Dadguy for both of you. and in your case, the sooner the better. You might get guidance about whether or not to proceed or forget about it. Our hearts are turned toward you and your precious family.
Love, Mom"

A timely reminder.

Peace.

Anyway... it may be a Happy Labor Day and all that in the US of the A, but my slacking off has extended to my housekeeping, and I gots to get up and rock the house. Or clean. Or something!

Thursday

It's important too fall in with a good crowd, and make quality friends who will help you excel when school starts; it sets the tone for the whole year. This lesson is really hitting home since KindyG has started. I've hooked up with some other moms and we are all motivated to go walking every morning until the snow starts; and then we will be hanging with Billy and the like at the local church cultural hall. I might even get frisky and try some yoga. We have been hitting it like athletes this week.

I'm hoping Birdie and LaLa can swing some good pals too.

So, of course Birdie is home sick today. Poor kid, getting in her mama's way.

*************************

Last night Pearl had a straight up nightmare. She was sobbing hysterically, and I thought that she was hurt. I ran in to the girl's room to find her laying on her tummy, still mostly asleep. I patted her back to sleep; but something in me broke.

I'm telling you, I was wrapped in some sort of buffering material this May, that's the only explanation for how I survived the fear and pain my child went through. The closer we get to these tests, the more horrified I am getting. I have no way of explaining to her that these tests need to be done, and they won't hurt. Please, just hold still for a minute.

She is so afraid, and I am starting to question the necessity of these tests. If it were up to Dadguy, the answer would be a flat "no." And the only reason for that, is he doesn't use profanity except for when he's trying to make me laugh. Otherwise it'd be a resounding "____ no!" He supports my decision to do these tests to ease my mind, to wrap it up; but he doesn't think they are at all medically necessary. He has an uncanny sense of what is and what isn't; the man is rarely wrong when it comes to stuff like this. Sometime I wish he were the mom. If this had been up to him, it never would have gone on for so long; he would have pushed harder, made them look closer, it would have been found sooner.

...and yet, I still do need these tests. I need that stamp of approval. Fini.

Today I am calling the surgeon's office. I think we could manage to do one day of tests, but they are going to have to offer some highly compelling reasons to convince me that all of this must be done and split up into multiple days. Sorry to beat this horse to the pieces, but time has not eased some parts of the horrors of this spring.

Am horrified to make her do the tests... unable NOT to do them.

How She Sounds

My sister's cat had kittens about six and a half weeks ago, they are not gonna be hanging around her house for much longer. She hopes. Which, by the way, if you live in Utah Valley and want a darling wee kitty for free (even comes spayed for free)... drop me an email. There are two left. I promised the Sis, I'd do my part to find homes for the fuzzies.

That was my part, the end.

We will never have a cat, as Dadguy is horrifically allergic to 'em; we make do with visiting OPK. Other People's Kitties. So this morning the girls and I were all loaded in the van, flying down the freeway to visit the short-timers. I was trying to listen to my favorite playlist with the volume turn low, and only the front speakers engaged. I do this because Birdie loves my playlist and rock n' roll in general, and if she hears it, she will ask me to turn on the back speakers. But she insists on having it loud and LaLa does not approve. In fact LaLa will scream bloody murder that the music "HOOTS MAH EE-AHS!" The fact that she screams it five or six decibels louder than the volume of music, doesn't seem to make much difference to her. Logic and three year olds; or should I say logic and LaLa. Hmph.

To be fair, LaLa came out of the womb with a strong preference in music. Unfortunately, that preference does not include my singing. One of her first words ever was "No!" and it was in response to me singing. When that didn't do the trick, she moved on to "THTOOOOOOOOP!"

This morning though, Birdie was thinking.

"Mama.... I have two moms and two dads huh?"

"No baby, you have one mom and one dad."

"But I have two Grandma's and two Grandpa's?"

"Yup, one set's from Daddy, and one from me."

"But I also have Grandma Duke?"

"Yes," I said, "you have Grandma and Grandpa Duke, but they are your GREAT Grandparents."

"Oh. Yeah and Grandma Francis."

Driving and thinking how sad I am that my girls will never know my own Grandparents, especially my maternal GP's, Granny and Pa. My Granny died when Birdie was just barely two, and her sweetheart, Pa, went a short nine months later. I loved my Granny.

"Plus my Granny and Pa, and my Grnadma and Grandpa B, but they are all dead." I say to her.

"Oh! Yeah, I remember Granny!" she squeals.

"You do?" This surprises me. Thinking she has a specific memory I ask, "what do you remember about Granny?"

I remember how she looks and I remember her voice when she speaks!"

"How do you remember that?"

"The Holy Ghost helps me to remember how she sounds. I remember her!"

"That's wonderful baby... I am so glad you can remember." I swallow past the tight spot in my throat; I blink rapidly to see the road. I miss my Granny, but I can remember too.

Freakout Post Advisory

In early September I take Pearl back to Primary Children's Hospital for a couple of final tests. Unfortunately, it will have to be over the course of at least two days... they won't do the various CT scans and the Esophagram on the same day. Something about the radiation and the putting under, and the swallowing of stuff, and the needing to be fasting, and the blah, blah, blah, medi-yakkity smak... the nurse who set up the appointments wasn't 100% sure. I have been calling these tests the "glamor shots" for the surgeons portfolios; and it may in fact be just that. But it's also a true follow up that will give them the (hopefully) final look at the healing of her throat. I don't think anything is wrong. It helps that she has been growing like a happy little weed.

I don't think anything is wrong. Still, I worry. I cannot help it. I worry.

There has been none of the stridor (noisy breathing) that had us tap dancing for a year. Ummm, except for the cold that she has right now. I actually resurrected her nebulizer three days ago, to help with her breathing. But I think that it's just the cold. I think that it is just the cold. But I have thought a lot of things through this pediatric extended episode of House M.D.

I want this to be the end.

Worry: The last time she had CT's done? She was one sick-sick-sickity little girl. She was having her allergic reaction to the drugs, but they thought that her surgical site was infected; or worse, her esophagus. When they put her under (she was screaming and flailing) for the CT's she stopped breathing twice. They were ready for it, and had a nurse standing there with one of those squeeze-bulb masks that forced air into her lungs when she couldn't do it herself. While I know that she is better, and I know that even if it happens again, they'll be ready like they were when it happened... there is something uniquely horrifying about your child's breathing being compromised like that. Heart-stoppingly horrifying.

It has been months since we were there in the hospital for the hard stuff. I don't want to go back. But I don't dare NOT take her back for this, and both tests suck. They suck big time. Anesthesia for the CT's, and strapping her down with a feeding tube down her nose for the esophagram. Screaming and fear involved with both, and no, I don't think that I am borrowing trouble when I predict this. The girl screams and cries piteously when she sees someone wearing scrubs.

I wish we could just do it all in one brutal day, and have done with it.

September 5th... September 10th... you'd think this would be a cake walk after what we have been through.

She's going to be fine. She's going to be fine. We are all going to be fine, we just need to finish this. She's going to be fine. Of course we are all going to be fine.

Odd

They say that memory is strongly linked to the olfactory unit. The sniffer, the snooter... your nose.

I'd buy that.

I am the queen of disorganization, and this year has been the worst; nothing like a big old medical thang to knock a girl off her stride. Combine that with the all-new-to-me jumping of hurdles and hoops of getting my eldest signed up for public school, and you have about nine trips to the elementary school in the past few months. I have walked those halls without a single twinge of nostalgia or weirdness.

I thought to myself, "La! There will be no problem with the letting of the Birdie to go offa to the schools!"

This morning school started for all of the district, except for the KindyG's, they started assessment testing. Birdie had her assessment test with her darlingdarlingDARLING KindyG teacher this morning at nine. Walked into the school... functioning and filled to the classroom gills with kids; the SMELL.

The smell. Gaghk! There was something about the smell of that building during an actual school day, that took me back and stopped me dead in my tracks. School. Really and for truly... going to school.

She starts next Tuesday, then LaLa starts pre-school the Tuesday after that.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Sunday Pic: Pony and Cat

Birdie requested I draw a picture of her stuffed kitty Garfield the other day. At some point it disappeared along with a piece of tape. Yesterday morning there was some sort of kerfuffle in the toy room... mostly wailing from LaLa, but I don't tend to run and police every single little dust-up that the girls have. I try and step in if it gets out of hand, or they don't seem to be able to settle it out themselves. I DO keep a general ear on the proceedings. I gathered enough to figure out that it was to do with there being no equal space for LaLa's pony. Birdie suggested something, and then they galloped off to the kitchen to draw.

Found this in the toy room later, and I understand now.

Apparently Birdie drew this for LaLa's pony. A space of it's own, and I don't think a mama could be prouder than I.

Now With 40% Less Angst

I was having a conversation with Elizasmom via email the other day. We were discussing some of the books we have been reading, and she dropped a line that really resonated with me. It captured into words, an idea that I had been trying to understand. She described a sense that one author had captured.

..." teenagers' sense of the world as this perpetually near-apocalyptic place."

Growing up, I certainly had that sense. It felt like society was absolutely on the brink of collapse, thermonuclear war was tomorrow, and the world's inequities and injustices were so horrifying that everything just had to STOP.

Oh... it FELT. Everything felt so horrible and so much was hopeless, and I was positive that the adults around me had gone numb. They couldn't feel anymore and had shut down into the little niches they had carved for themselves... like they had created these identities as a protection, but then forgot who they really were and started to cling to the persona's out of habit.

Heh. ahem.

First I'd like to acknowledge that I may be a person who is a bit... mmmm, oversensitive? There is this little personality test thingy that is making the rounds of the bloggernet. It's a personality test that gives you the straight dope on who you really are, in terms that are not so flattering. Like Borefest, Scumbag, Crackpot and Loser. It's based on the four main Jungian categories of personality... and I have taken that sucker five times trying to see if I could jigger that thing about to get a different result than the one that I got. Every question that was not an absolute, I tried other answers... and yet every single out come had me labeled as an ESFJ. A Sap. A Crybaby.

Excuse me... I had to go blow my nose.

Just last week I was out to eat with some friends, one of whom was my own sweet sister. For some reason I informed my friend sitting across from me that I could take her out (beat her up) if need be. First, it should be said that there is no question in my mind... I really would win if it came to throwing down with any of the women who were there that night... with the notable exception of my sis, and then I think it would be a pretty good fight. I made my statement for a laugh, I like to clown around a bit, but my sister started snorting, and informed me that I was a sap, and couldn't hurt a fly!

Huh.

I'm thinking that it may be true, and I am a sap. I have vivid memories of crying a lot as a kid. One time in particular was when I was about six or seven, sitting on the lower bunk in the room that I shared with my brothers. I was, of course, crying... and I was trying to remember a day, any day, when I had not cried, and I couldn't recall one single day.

But then, how clear are the thought processes and memories of a kid that age? I don't know, but I was probably just feeling sorry for myself. In any case, I have never been suicidal. Although once after my divorce, I had a moment or two when I felt bad enough that I admitted I could understand why some folks DO consider it.

Wow... this is a whole load of introversion for a supposed extrovert! Is that a bit of lint in my navel?

This whole post is a lead up to informing you that you may be subjected to some poetry soon. I can't help it, it's on it's way... it's bubbling around in my innards and it will come OUT! I figure it's best to give in to the need to poetry in small doses, so that it doesn't all come spewing out on some poor, unsuspecting soul. Take comfort in my adulthood and deadened sense of near-apocalypse, hopefully it won't all suck too bad. And if it does? There is always that little red "X" you can click.

Rejoice, Mourn or Puke?

Coming up on the end of an era; this time of my life that I have had all of my children, all to myself. I could hold onto this time and home school Birdie for at least her first few years.... but that's sort of where the "rejoice" portion of this whole "era" bit kicks in.

Kindergarten.

I was fairly sure that I would not get maudlin over kindygarten, and indeed, I may not yet. But I'm feeling sort of odd about my eldest girlee being in the "system." They have her inoculation records and have inspected her birth certificate. I am a card carrying member of the local PTA. That odd feeling that I am feeling? Could be me mourning, but I will admit nothing.

They are growing up.

I have been busy reading fiction these past few weeks. Chomping down book after book. Slurping, relishing and hoarking down whole. It's a combination of things that fuels my literary consumption, this slight bit of freedom that starts to happen as your kids get a little older. Pearl is starting to be a fully functioning agent of Chaos, and is accepted into the ranks of destructo girls, and their play. And instead of getting a handle on the household everything that I am, as "the Mama" ostensibly in charge of.... I have been playing too.

In my defense: we are trying for our fourth and final kiddo, actually HAVE been trying since the beginning of the year. Well, technically trying. There was the whole "pneumonia" debacle, followed by various less-than-fetus-friendly medications that went on for a few months. Then the part where I hung out at the hospital for a month with the youngest. But all the fun times are over and I have been feeling a pregnancy in the air.

no... not right NOW! Soon.

That's why I read now, because once I get pregnant? It's all over for me. Everything, and I mean everything shuts down for the Mama when she gets knocked up.

Sigh.

I know that it is all at an end for me, just by virtue of the fact that Dadguy and I went on two dates together this week. Two. Dates. Like, without the kids. PLUS, he got to go see The Simpsons Movie with a buddy, and I went to the Eclipse book release party on Monday night. This all happened this past week. It is so very OVER for me.

But then... I think I feel a similar set of feelings about being pregnant to those of sending the Bird to KindyG. Confused.

Do I rejoice, mourn or puke?

Sunday Pic: Photshoot Progression

Grandma P wanted to get the two older girls a pair of school shoes each. These suede confections were what they wanted so badly, they nearly wept for joy when they saw them. They have pink pom poms on them.

I thought they were so dang funny looking, I got Pearl a pair as well. No one is allowed to wear them until school starts (that's why they are still with their tags), but I wanted to take a pic to try and justify my own purchase, as well as letting Grandma spend perfectly good money on such an item. Pink overload, and I don't care. The photoshoot disintegrated in such a typical fashion.... I had to include all the shots.

In my defense, I have discovered that I will get every dimes worth of wear out of shoes the girls love. Not so much when I insist on a style they don't love. So yeah, I'm being "frugal."

Art (Continued)

Part of my problem with Art and the Art world, was the nasty shock that I got when I realized that I would have to get out there and peddle my biz in the real world. The real world, as seen from my admittedly limited student eye view at State college in Albq NM, was not pretty. First, I was active in AA almost my entire higher educationated career, and the bulk of the profs handing out the A's, holding the hands, and coddling the careers of students were doing so primarily... with those they socialized with.

And by socialized with, I really mean partied with. As a recovering alky, I didn't party, and I didn't get the A's except for the ones I eked out with sheer guts. (please note: it couldn't possibly have anything to do with me sucking at art. No problem with ego HERE!) Nobody held my hand, and when I ran into a road block, I don't recall any one but my parents even blinking when I dropped out. At the end of my Junior freaking year.

Add to this, the semester that I found my "voice."

Remember last post, the Advanced Painting instructor? He was the MAN according to everyone who was anyone, and when I started that semester, I kow towed to the "process" the man preached. And I got "A+'s" on my first three paintings. BUT, then I took to heart his preaching about finding my own "voice" so I started looking for it.

What I found, was my original palette, and my first instincts. The way that I first painted, before my "education". There was not one single prof at that school ever even talked about glazing, or realism, or master studies... or anything classical. If you figured out how to make a human being LOOK like a human being, you lucked into it or found it somewhere, or from someone else. Maybe from a book. A portrait? It was too passe- what were we? Some bunch of "hack portrait artists" sitting on a sidewalk, trying to swing a buck? NO! We were ARTISTS of HIGH ART. At least that seems like the subtext, between what was taught and what was notably absent from the curriculum.

In retrospect, I went back to my first instincts, because... why the crap not? It's not like I had been taught anything better. It's not like I had anything like a honed craft, or any craft at that point. Art was purely a mental and verbal exercise for me by then.

So me with my "voice", thinking I'm all that and a bottle of Liquin, hits my final critique. Which is funny, because I don't have any recollection of the critique going south. I recall the prof not saying much, I recall it was a pretty cut and dry affair... and I recall thinking that I had done "A" work straight down the line. And then I got my grades. According to the paperwork, I'd pulled down a "C" in that class.

Slammed.

Devastated.

Destroyed.

Starting to get a little angry. I'm fairly sure that I would have left it, except I had a scholarship to keep, and that semester, I was walking a fine line with my GPA... I needed a "B-" to hold onto the scholarship. I went to the profs studio to talk to him about the grade. First I asked him about his grading scale... seven paintings, I knew the first two were "A+'s", the next was an "A"... what the CRAP went on that I limped in with a "C" after grades like that? Why hadn't he indicated to me that I was blowing the course?

He told me it was just a judgement call, and that if I disagreed, he'd change the grade. Please imagine my horror and how furious I was when he handed back my "change grade" slip, to find that he'd written in "B+." Judgement call? From a "C" to a "B+"? I was so angry I started crying, and then I was so mad I was crying... I just left. Truly, the beginning of the end for me.

Since then I have learned more on my own, and through books. I have started working from a bit more of a sophisticated palette, and I do what I do for a reason. Or... rather, I DID, before this child induced hiatus. But I can tell you for sure that I will never get my sorry can out there and peddle my biz. I'm lazy, plus I really don't feel like I have much of anything original to say with art... and what I DO say don't sit so pretty over the sofa, if ya know what I mean.

Reading back over this, it seems like I am saying that I was done dirty... and yeah, to an extent I was. But I also know that I was the one to walk away, and that I did not have to. The fact is... it was a choice. There was simply not enough in that version of the world of art to hold me there. The world of Academia and University Art Departments are hardly the be all of anything, no matter how mucho serioso everyone involved seems to think they are. Today there are so many outlets for my creativity, brains, and sense of humor; not the least of which is in the raising of three little artist girls of my own.

Birdie has entered into a stage of progression that is far less about observed reality than it is about the story aspect of art. Her figures have reverted to a simplified form, the expression of the face usually being the only detail given notice. Her drawings are the vehicles of speech and thought bubbles filled with laboriously spelled out words. Although she has decided that eyes are not just round circles... she says they are pointy ovals, and she fills them with irises and pupils, giving them a fringe of lashes. LaLa has started into people and ponies with teeny heads and colorful bodies... sometimes twelve legs, and Pearl is all about the process of sitting down in LaLa's booster seat, and calling out "pih-tuh!" until I fetch the paper and crayons. She will then go through every color she can get her dimpled hands on, and color every square inch of her "payy-puh" a muddy rainbow. When they crayons go in the yap, we are done.

The many daily drawing sessions with Chaos are such a frenetic affair, with the fetching, sharpening, the spelling, and admiring going on all at once- I never get past sharpening a pencil for myself before it is done. But I really cannot regret where I am right now. As y'all have pointed out, I get to quilt and make cakes and garden... these things scratch the worst of the itch,and the rest will wait till later. And the rest that waits? Who knows whether it will have much of anything to do with paint and brushes?

Cause, I am thinking about that novel... and for some reason, the idea of peddling my writing biz does not turn my stomach the way that peddling paintings did. So yeah... fie upon Art.

My name is bon...

...and I am a recovering artiste.

Twenty years ago in High School, I was all about art. I was good at it, enjoyed it, and I defined myself with the term of "artist." I took art classes at the community college because I disdained the calligraphy heavy art courses the HS offered, and was a little creeped out by high saturation of Wrestlers and Stoners who took the Crafts course: essentially a ceramics class taught by the wrestling coach (although I gutted it out for a year and learned some interesting vocabulary). I hung out with kids who called themselves Punks, Wavers, and Mods and I knew that was "who" I was... an artist.

I don't do that much anymore, label myself as an artist.

People who knew me then are always surprised, when they meet me nowadays, to find that I have very little to do with the visual arts any more. More than once, I have felt that I have let them down. The feeling doesn't last long, but it's not fun while it's here.

What a strange place I am in, and in some ways it makes me a little sad; this diffident relationship I have to all things "art" these days. We are strangers, but for the love of crayon and glue that my girls have. Strangers, and I was not even aware that we had slipped completely out of touch until I read a recent post on Feminist Mormon Housewives the other day. The post was regarding balancing the love of art and still keeping to LDS standards. An interesting read, and something pertinent to my life... but HOO! The comments started to get off into the realm of "what is true art" and some commenter's started labeling the bulk of mainstream LDS art as "propaganda" and "cheesy." If your interested, go read the comments for yourself... for my part, I started to feel annoyed at some of the dismissive and arrogant stances some of the folks were taking about "art". Attitudes and ideas that I suspect a nineteen year old "bon" might have subscribed to.

On many levels... art annoys me. Especially art that considers itself ART, and I am trying to figure out how I ended up here, and how long I'm a gonna stay at this point in my relationship to (esp.) the visual arts. Visualize the face a two years old would make upon biting in to a piece of baking chocolate.... expecting sweet-yummy, getting bitter-yukky. THAT'S the state of the relationship.... on my side at least, because ART, and the art world? Could not care less that I no longer love it.

There have been specific points in my road to disenchantment with the art world, and I may catalog a few in a different post, but mostly I am sick to death of the elitist attitudes that so many involved in art seem to sport. The idea that all real-and-for-true art must "challenge" us and make us "think." The dismissal of beauty for beauty's sake. But mostly the dismissal of people... any people who do not get it, or do not care for high ART.

Perhaps it is sour grapes from hour long critiques, and long winded and blatantly BSed discussions on the artistic process.... maybe it was the gleeful, half-ironic attempts of my fellow students in trying to start the UNM Eff-You-ist movement. Perhaps it was the semester I learned that the Advanced Painting instructor, who was ostensibly trying to get us to find our own "voice" and "expression," really only wanted wanted us to do it within HIS version of the artistic process.

And then a few years later while working at the local art supply store, assisting that same instructor and coming to realize that the man knew jack about the chemistry of his own craft, and was barely cognizant of archival issues. Teaching. Advanced painting.

I learned almost nothing that I wanted to in school.

(2 B continued)