Medical Cannabis

Sooooo... I'm about to get political and Utah-specific. 

 I'm still trying to wrap my head around what my Church has done/allowed to happen in regards to a Proposition that is going on the ballot to be voted on by Utahns in November. Proposition 2 is a long fought, and in my opinion, relatively conservative Act to legalize Medical Cannabis for Patients in Utah.  What my church has done is incredibly confusing and demoralizing to me on so many fronts, I'm almost at a loss as to how to write a blog post about it.

But here goes.

My Church has sent out an email specifically "urging" all members to vote NO on the Proposition. 

I find myself in the interesting position of the fact that my husband and I give cashy-money to Libertas Institute, the think tank lobbying group that helped Prop2 become what it is. We donate to them every month. I agree with darn near everything that has come out of the institute, and most of the things that Connor Boyack (head of Libertas) has done or taught. I have, in fact, paid tuition for three of my kids to take a class he taught last fall at a homeschool co-op. A class on Systems of Government. 

Connor has, along with a few State legislators, tried to get a medical cannabis bill passed for over four years. Efforts which have been stymied for years by a combination of elected representatives refusing to move on it, and the interference by the lobbying arm of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. My church.

The refusal of the Legislative body to move is extremely frustrating, especially since polls indicate that a substantial majority of Utahns support legalizing medical cannabis. Not just legalizing pot for recreational use, but only legalizing it for doctors (and only the doctors who also essentially have the right to also prescribe opioids) can have the ability to prescribe ("recommend"is the term because Cannabis is still illegal at the Federal level) cannabis as a therapeutic drug.  To be clear... this is not smoking pot. Smoking it is STILL illegal.

Look, I believe in personal liberty.

I come at this from the angle of a person who is a self-described drug addict/alcoholic in recovery. Coming up on 21 years clean and sober this October 7th, thankyouverymuch! I come at this as a person who has personal experience with the chemicals in question who now adheres to her Church's code of health and eschews use of any and all mind-altering substances, plus coffee, tea, and tobacco. 

I believe that keeping my faith's health code, the Word of Wisdom, is a great idea. But I also believe that making drugs, and I mean pretty much any and all drugs, illegal, makes the abusers of the drugs into criminals, and once criminal, they become our American Untouchables. It is hard to help someone who has to conceal their disease for fear of imprisonment. I see the USA's "War on Drugs" as a hellish travesty, one continuous, vile, overreaching  "unintended consequence."

I come at this as a person who has seen first hand the disaster that Opioid addiction (prescription primarily) has had on people in this valley as a Facilitator for the Substance Abuse Recovery Program of The Church Of Jesus Christ Of Latter Day Saints. I have seen the trainwreck it is for faithful members. 

I've seen this first hand through the struggles of my late Brother in Law. Every single struggle that man faced was exacerbated, not helped by his "criminal" status.

Two years ago I lost my nephew to Heroin overdose.  Honestly, this is a tender point for me. Please know that I'm fully aware of the costs of addiction. FULLY aware, and yet I fail to see how my nephew being a criminal in his drug use helped him one tiny iota.

I come from a medical history of rampant ignorance and harm done to me via medical doctors prescribing FDA "safe"medications and procedures to me that have trashed and permanently maimed my body. I've had surgeries that were complete cluster-cusses that ended up with medical doctors  giving me the equivalent of "erm, I dunno." I started far too late in trusting myself. I gave far too much trust to medical "science."  

On Friday of last week the church that I belong to sent out an email via their official church emailing lists, on official church email letterhead, so to speak. When I got the email I went into a tailspin. I desire to be obedient, and I desire to follow the word of my God as revealed through His ordained Prophet.... 

For me this is important. Of utmost importance. 

In the Book of Mormon, there is a story about a people who were bloodthirsty and violent. They thought almost nothing of murdering people, and they didn't believe in Christ, or that He (this was in approx 90 BC) would come. They were the enemy of the Nephite peoples, who believed in Christ.  The Lord sent missionaries to the Lamanites, and whole kingdoms of Lamanites were converted to Christ during some amazing and faith-filled events.  These people, in turning to the Savior and repenting, had a sore and difficult time of repenting of their many murders. So much so, that they literally buried their weapons of war.

They buried those weapons so far down, in the depths of the earth and in their Christian hearts, that they didn't pick them up to defend themselves or their families when an army of unbelieving Lamanites fell upon them. These believers allowed themselves to be slain by the sword as they knelt in a field. Over a thousand lost their lives that day, but an even larger number of the unbelieving enemy threw down their swords and joined them. These people who refused to pick up weapons, even in their own defense became known as the Anti-Nephi-Lehis. 

There are even more incredible stories about what happened to these people in the writings of Alma in the Book of Mormon, but my point here is that in some ways I consider myself an Anti-Nephi-Lehite. I have buried my weapons of war, and like them, I fear if I ever take them up again, I will never survive the repentance.  I dare not return to my weapons of war. My disobedience. My self will.  My favorite drugs. My favorite sins.

So here I am.... 

You should know also, that in recent years I have had a serious struggle, and I wrestle with certain points of doctrine that frankly, hurt my heart and confuse me. I have been wrestling for over three years and have found no rest, nor understanding past the answers that I have received to my prayers. The answers have been essentially "it is as it is, sorry you don't understand, and sorry you don't like it."

I am used to answers like this.

When I got the email, I was sure that this was another case of the above. As I wept bitterly, I hit my knees and prayed for guidance because everything in my mind and my heart says YESYESYES to Prop 2. I hit my knees, willing to be wrong. Willing to vote NO if that was the Lords will. Heck, the Church and the Gospel does all sorts of thing that I cannot wrap my head around, that hurt my heart even. I am okay with obedience. I WANT to be obedient. In many ways I must be obedient. 

I asked with a broken heart and received a personal revelation that I must vote YES on Prop2.  The answer was unmistakeable and unequivocal that I MUST. 

I know that the Holy Ghost requires me to vote what I know to be true, and I know it the same way that I know President Nelson is the Prophet of God on the earth, and the same way that I also know the the Church is for reals the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. His Church. 

I figured that this was enough. This was my answer, and only MY answer.  I sat in discomfort for several days before I finally asked if I was expected to say out loud and publicly what I have had revealed to me.

After all, I'm not a prophet. I certainly DON'T receive revelation for anyone but myself and those I have stewardship over.... basically my family. Plus I really don't want to make a target of myself. But I am seeing people all over the internet essentially saying that the email that was sent basically means that it is prophetic revelation from President Russel M. Nelson himself.

I don't believe that.

Why would I have received the answer that I did if it was?  I can hear people now, trying to convince me that I am wrong, or that I was mistaken in my answer. 

No. I know what I know, and I know the means by which I know it. 

It became clear, to my great discomfort, that I was required to speak.

But take my word for it? Please don't. I claim nothing past my stewardship, and I have zero stewardship over you.... but I do plead for you to do your homework. 

Here is the legal "analysis"  that the Church has based it's stance upon.

Here is the rebuttal.

plus more information.

This whole cluster-cuss is made even more complex by the fact that now the church apparently supports Medical Cannabis, but only if certain impossible standards are met. What exactly does this mean for faithful LDS members in one of the other 30 States that have legalized (and far more liberally, I might add) medical Cannabis, and are taking doctor recommended medication that contains marijuana? Does this mean they should stop? 

So as far as I can tell, my church has been the victim of some very poor information. Hey, back in the day they thought that Hitler was doing some pretty great stuff.... before the truth was discovered. Wayyyy back in the day, Joseph Smith practically bankrupted the Church and many members through his uninspired, non-prophetic and crappy money management. Not everything is Revelation. I'm sorry that they moved in the way that they have. 

I'm positive that this (email and stance of the Church) was not prophetic, yet if the Prophet does, in fact, come forward with an actual statement I will revisit the whole thing.

There. I have done what I was asked to do... If you choose to comment, please keep it above the waist. You should also know that I am COMPLETELY uninterested in anything that smacks of bashing my faith, my Church or my Prophet. I don't ask you to believe me, or agree with me, or vote any particular way. But if you are a member of the Restored Church, I would hope at least, that you'd take some time to educate yourself and ask the Lord your God. People are on the line here. Suffering and sick people who can be helped. 

Full disclosure.... I don't have a dog in this race. I have NO medical issues that Cannabis can help, neither do I have any family members who will be helped by having access to medical cannabis.

Cheeser Wobbin

I didn't grow up with Winnie The Pooh. Sure, I probably could have identified the character if shown a picture of him, but the movies and books weren't a part of my childhood lexicon. But boy-oh-boy was the Pooh family a large part of my children's lives, starting with Birdie. 

For her first or second birthday (maybe Christmas?) I went online and found super cheap VHS copies of both The Many Adventures of Pooh, and Pooh's Grand Adventure. The songs became our songs, and to this day many of the quotes are still heard in the Halls of Chaos.

You never can tell about bees!

I don't suppose you have a balloon about you?

Tut-tut! It looks like rain!

I think the bee's S-U-S-P-E-C-T something!

Heave Ho! Heave Ho! Heave, Heave, Heave, POP! Hooooooooooo!

The gentle theme song was sung nightly as part of the bedtime routine, and I can still remember how the Bird mispronounced some of the names when she was very, VERY young.

Mee dah Pooh, Cheeser Wobbin, and Pliddit for Piglet, while both LaLa and Pearl both called the little pink guy "Piggit." They all called Tigger "Tidder."

Even Henry, who has eschewed all thing cute and "little kiddish" from the age of five, will still sit and chortle through nearly any Pooh movie. Mind you, not the insipid little TV programs that have been bastardized from the originals...but they will all watch the movies with a grin of expectation and joy on their faces. Springtime With Too, A Very Merry Pooh Year, The Tigger Movie, Piglet's BIG Movie, the Heffalump Movie... there is just something so gentle and funny about them. 

Enter the new live action film Christopher Robin.

Life has been moving on in the House of Chaos. Everyone has been growing and growing up at a prodigious pace. Birdie is 16 now, old enough to drive and date. LaLa is 14 and Pearl is 12... they are all three in the Young Women's program of our church. Only Henry is still in Primary... but even he will turn double digits at the end of this year. 

Honestly, I'm not terribly sentimental about their young childhoods... not often in any case.  It was in some ways a rough time for me.... going through having four babies within seven years as an older mother. Trying to get everything figured out and to be honest, I lost whole sections of myself in the process. I'm still not clear whether the parts I lost will ever be found and whether it's a good or bad thing.

But oh. That movie hit me in a spot I didn't know existed. 

So, this summer Birdie got her first real-and-for-actual "Jobby-job" at the nearby movie theater. It's been hard on her. The shifts are longer than anticipated, the place isn't big on actually training their employees, and it's a little overly "big corp" for my tastes, but it has been a growing experience. One of the perks of the job is that she can go see movies for free, and get one other person in for free as well. So far she's taken her siblings to see shows, but when Christopher Robin came out, we both knew that show was mine. 

A no-brainer, Mama and Birdie event!

No spoilers... But the film kept true to the original Pooh gentleness and managed to keep the sweetness while never stepping over the line into saccharine. But it was also a little heart-breaking and just a little dark in places. Growing up is one thing... but being a parent, a good parent who provides the important things for little humans, things like a home, and food, and boundaries, and regular bedtimes... that changes us all, doesn't it? Sometimes I kinda wonder, does it kind of dim us as humans? I don't know. I'm not really one to romanticize childhood much. My own was in no way terrible, but I for sure don't miss it. 

At all.

But, erm.... well, I may miss my own children's childhoods. Maybe a little. Perhaps I will miss it bitterly.

I sat in the darkened theater, courtesy of my employed oldest, and thought of how she had just gotten her drivers license the day before. Thinking about how I pushed her into it, that last bit. 

Pushed hard.

How she really didn't want to grow-up and drive herself places. I recalled the relief on her face when earlier, as we were leaving to see the movie I offhandedly said, "Oh, I'll drive us to the theater."

The growing up does have to happen. The driving pretty much does too. Eventually everyone really is potty trained and apparently, for the Mama, the ugly crying is gonna be happening right along with some of these events, once the reality hits. And holy crap, the weeping may continue off and on for days.

Hello, uglycry headache, what a pleasant surprise. How 'bout lunch?  And, help yourself, Pooh.

This and That

So. Not a perfect family. So what?

Honestly... my family of origin is pretty great, and I love them. Just hadda get that off my chest I guess. In a strange way I see that what I wrote in my last post could be taken to mean that there was some abuse going on in my family, by comparing some of my sibs fighting styles to a stone cold abuser. I don't think that... I was just surprised to find myself back in some old emotional places, and I was finally able to see some things I hadn't before.

Not great, but hey, I'm an adult now, and I'm better equipped to deal with what's coming my way. Mostly.

Speaking of being an adult... I didn't start having babies until I was in my 30's, so I think I might have been under the impression that I was gonna skip the identity crisis once the kids grow up and move out. Ya know, the empty nester crisis of "who am I now?"

I'm no where near the empty-nest stage, but the Bird has a real jobby-job at the nearby movie theater and will be a licensed driver by the end of the week (assuming it all goes as planned) and I can see that eventually this is really gonna happen.  She's sixteen and I can see it.  The end of raising children.

...and I don't recognize myself anymore.

In some ways I am pretty all right, but in other ways I look at myself and feel like, "Really? I'm really still dealing with this crap?"

Better spend a little time this summer and see if I can dig out from underneath the mommy-identity and figure out some of who I've become over here. To that end, I'm grateful for a goofy little disaster we had at the beginning of summer.

When our house was being built it looks like there was a mix-up with where our water main was to come into the house. For some reason (prolly water main) there was a 3-4 inch hole either drilled or left in our foundation that got "patched" by someone shoving in a glob of tar and then covering the whole mess with insulation. This spring the "fix" failed at the same time as we had sprinkler leak right on top of the hole.

Water... in a carpeted closet in the basement for at least a week before it was found.

The carpet and padding had started to mold, the baseboards were swollen and ruined, as was a goodly section of drywall. I dug the mess out and cut away the drywall till I discovered what had caused it, then promptly called the builders.

They informed me that the house was well out of it's one year "workmanship warranty," and I informed them that if a foundation cannot hold up for more than a year, that ain't "workmanship." The foundation is actually covered for ten years... but I guess builders want to pay up about as much as a health insurance company.

Eventually they agreed that a giant hole in the foundation does constitute a "problem" that they ought to fix... and with some back and forth they even agreed to fix everything but the flooring. They, right or wrong, want us to take on some of the damage fix because of the sprinkler leak. SO, the upshot is that by the end of this month the (rather large) closet will be refinished only with no flooring and that will be the PERFECT place to paint. Year round!

On an interesting note, a painting I had done of Calvary's Hill is going up at a local Christian Ministry homeless outreach center. I am sooooo stoked!

Outliers

In the first part of January I wrote the following post and never published it because I was afraid of starting family drama. Now, a half a year, and not one single post later.... I find that I don't care anymore. 

I. Just. Can't. Even.

I've made some sort of nasty trade-off that I wasn't aware of. I'm stoppered up. Can't write, can't draw, and can't paint. I have sat down time and time again and the following post glares at me from my "drafts." It mocks me every time. I sit down to write and see it there, then I have to re-read it and discover that it's still killing me.

Honestly, I hope my family no longer checks this blog, because I still don't want to start drama, but my sanity comes first.... and the following rings true.

Christmas was lovely in many ways this year. 

Saw the movie White Christmas for the first time and had a few very welcome gut laughs... an activity that was made all the more delightful since I could hear my kids laughing along with me.  We had Gingerbread cookies and gluten free Ninjabread cookies, fudge, and english toffee, and endless amounts of popcorn. Did a fun activity where we dipped red plastic spoons in chocolate and then rolled them in teensy marshmallow bits and wrapped them up in cellophane bags, so we could have extra fancy hot chocolate at our big Christmas Eve party.

Birdie's Aunt T'amy bought her a ticket to go see the Foo Fighters in SLC as an early sweet sixteen birthday gift, but then couldn't take her because of a mandatory rehearsal that night (T'amy is in the Mo-Tab) and so I haaaaaad to take her using T'amy's ticket. Woe is me. They played three long hours of awesome.

Caroling, an amazing party for our church congregation, lights and just enough snow in the wee hours of Christmas morning to qualify as a White Christmas here in Newtown, Utah.

There were some amazing take-aways from the season... but there was also this one thing.

At one of the gatherings, I had a conversation with a sibling about how things are now so very different from how they used to be in our family. She talked about how peaceful (relatively speaking) our family gatherings are, how our interactions are so much kinder than one would guess from how we grew up. She reminisced about the toxic sarcasm and viscous jibes that we used to deal out to each other. We loved each other, but it was a biting and rasping sort of a love.  Without pointing too may fingers, lets just say that we were a family of six smart-ass kids being raised by a very high functioning autistic woman and an emotionally absent father.

That conversation, and a few family interactions really opened my eyes.

You see, I think I have this strangely idealized vision of my family of origin. Like we all get along so famously and well.  Like all of that pain and viscousness is in the past.

Sweet fiction.

***

In my mid twenties I met and married a guy, I hesitate to call him a man. I see now that he was mostly a hurt child in a man's body... let's just say that he was abusive in nearly every way a man can be abusive to a woman. I'm not going to list it out right now, that's not really the point. 

The point is, until recently I have viewed this person and the relationship as an outlier in my life.

There was that one conversation that I will never forget, because it so perfectly encapsulates the mess that was he, and I, and that messed up marriage.

   "Themama," he said one day after a particularly bad fight. A fight where he hadn't laid a hand or a boot on me, but managed maximum damage nonetheless.  Anyone who has been through a violently abusive relationship can tell you, the real damage is rarely done with fists. It's the words that landed that you're trying to slip decades later. "Themama, we just argue very differently." He wasn't being unkind at that moment, he actually was explaining like you would to a little child. "You see, you argue because you think you are "right" about whatever it is we're fighting about. So you try to explain to me why you are right. But when I argue, whoever hurts the worst at the end, loses. You'll always lose to me. Always."

Really sucks, and I'm not saying my family was some horrible or abusive mess.... 

           ... but I AM saying he was not the outlier I thought he was. As a matter of fact, in some ways- he made perfect sense. The whole idea of "whoever hurts the most at the end is the loser" was not some new experience for me. I had just never heard it said out loud before.

The thing is, I really am that thick. When I engage in an argument, I really do think that I'm right, and I tend to be pretty good at explaining why I think so. Later in life I have even made a bit of a study of the logical fallacies of argument, and I try to remain balanced and rational... but I realize now,  I never did have a freaking clue about the rules of engagement when it comes to my family of origin. 

I'll always lose. Always.

Older

Getting older is interesting. On the one hand, there is all the suck involved with my body starting to break down in earnest. My day is bracketed with pills I take immediately upon arising, the pills I take an hour to an hour and a half after that, the pills I take with dinner, and then that last pill directly before laying down at night.

Seriously. The conversations I have with the geriatrics in my neighborhood.

One bonus of age, is that my ability to do and to serve has been increased. My comprehension of what needs doing to run a home and a homeschool, and the organization to make it happen has been supercharged.

And that's great. It really is. But now I have reached the end of everything. The end of my abilities and the end of my spiritual and emotional stamina, along with the meager physical stamina of a body on the wane.

I am staring down the barrel of my 50's, and I have a niggling fear that I have made a grave error. I suspect that raising teenagers is a younger woman's game. 

I have more thoughts. But it's time to go and stir the beast. Time to start the day.

I miss coffee.

Gratitude

Tonight was a gathering of the ladies in my church congregation the theme was gratitude.

In my gift bag I took:
Tube of Orange Mango Blistex
Pack of Minty Gum
Small Bottle of Scented Lotion
Travel Size Spritzer of Poo-Pourri
                                 ...and a poem.

Gratitude

I am grateful for mortality,

I give thanks, I really do!

But some "smells" come with bodies

Like…. Take for instance “poo.”

Sometimes bodies can be bummers

Like with headaches

And chapped lips,

Stomach flu and colds and such

That cause unhealthy drips.

Bad breath, B.O.

The list goes on and on,

But eight bucks was the limit

So a line had to be drawn.

Fruity Blistex and some lotion

Gum and Poo-Pourri

Enjoy this little gift of scents

Just for you,

From me!

Happy Freaking Halloween

I don't know what happened.

This is the day after Halloween and I have a costume hangover. I swear off the fancy stuff, the elaborate and the time-consuming. 

The time I spent helping kids and actually making the costumery this past month and a half was unreal.  It was fun and the results were cool... but I will never do it again. 

Check it out....

Pearl

Lala

Y'all... those kids designed their own costumes. I made those lace up aviator boots with steam punk detailing by hand. We tracked down all of the pre-made bits from second hand stores and cos-play eBay sites. I learned how to make armor from EVA foam and a heat gun and paint. 

Even with all the DIY and the second hand, I can't bring myself to think about how much money was spent.

Henry is wearing the same mask and carrying a knife just like Dadguy did last year. Birdie is wearing most of the elements from her last years Death Eater costume.

Do you know how much more the above two loved their costumes than the other two who just used these bits from other costumes?

Henry

Birdie

I'll give you a hint... the Steampunk Angel? Took off her costume (including the aviator boot-toppers) and dug around in the costume box last night when it came time to go trick or treating. She put on a black cloak and accessorized with a hot pink hair bow and a hot pink belt. She called herself a "vampire" and that was that. 

We had spent so much time getting it "right" that she was bored with the stupid thing by the time it mattered.

I. Am. So. Done.

*Edited to add: Really? I was showing these pictures to a group of women at my church, and an older woman just informed me that LaLa's outfit is too sexy. After I had explained how long it TOOK ME TO MAKE IT. Too sexy? Not! Sorry. Whatever. Shut up. Who says crap like that?

This

What's messy?

Life is messy.

What's messier than life?

Life with kids.

What's messier than that? 

Life with artistic kids.

Super.

Duper.

Mess-mania.

Questions

   I have been struggling with questions. 

   Lots of questions. Grundles and truckloads of them. Things that had never bothered me before, festering and confusing. Mostly centering around my eternal identity as a woman, and the veiled nature of my Heavenly Mother. 

   I am an LDS woman, and we believe that as a counterpart to our Father in Heaven, we have a Divine Mother. She was Mother to our Savior before Mary. She is Mother to us all. So, while all of the visible Priesthood responsibility in mortality falls to the men, giving the church the aspect of Ultimate Patriarchy, the eternal reality of our existence must be something different. It has to be. 

   If the organization of the family here on earth is a type and a shadow of Family in Heaven... well. Just think! What must our Mother be?! 

  But here is where I get confused, women need each other. In so many ways we need each other in a way that men do not need each other. We need the support of other women, and we need to watch older women and see how things are done.  When it comes to being a mother, ourselves, having an example of what to do and how is so very vital.

   Any woman who has ever attempted breastfeeding, can I get an amen? 
  
   It makes no sense then,  that we have all the appearance of having been ditched, here on earth, by the one source of strength that we need the most. 

   Really? What gives?

   Right. I know. You don't have the answer.

   I had been studying, and studying it out. Praying and pondering. During my personal prayers the week before last, I felt very strongly that I needed to go and speak to my Bishop. 
   
 "Really," I thought? "What can he possibly tell me that I haven't already found?" 

   Took me a week call and make the appointment, but then last Tuesday finally rolled around, and I went in and talked the man's ear off.  Two hours of download. Poor guy.

   The next morning he dropped two books off at my door and texted me to let me know they were there. He also informed me that he felt that my questions were inspired questions from Heavenly Father, that He wanted me to search and ponder for answers. For some reason, I had simply assumed that the questions were from my faithless and restless brain. 

  Well. Changes everything!

   One of the books he lent me is Patricia T. Holland's "A Quiet Heart." Not yet done with it, but I see that this is a book that I need a copy of my own. This is exactly the book I needed, and I see that I am only just scraping the surface of this.  I also see that this book is gonna make a superior gift for every LDS woman I know.

  Funny... the book itself  is a pretty little journal thing with a photo of a white rose on the cover and roses printed on the side of each page like some sort of nicey-nice bit of fluff.  I will admit to some skepticism as I flipped through it and saw that it came complete with a cream colored ribbon attached to mark your place. 

   Y'all. This is no nicey-nice fluff. It addresses my more serious questions head on, and I am adoring this woman, this wife of an Apostle of Christ.

   Today when Dadguy walked past the table where I was sitting and reading, I told him that I was going to need my own copy of this book for highlighting and writing in the margins. He seemed surprised, did I mention that the thing looks like an overly flowery book of cheesy poetry? I told him that Sister Holland was directly speaking so many of my concerns. 

   Birdie was standing nearby, listening like a hawk. I'm not 100% sure what all of this means to her, but I hope at least she will learn that God has room for the honest questions of a seeker.  I hope she will understand that the concerns of a daughter matter.

   "Wow, really?" says Dadguy, "should I read it too, then?"

   "Well," I reply, "it's written specifically for women, but yeah.... you should totally read it."

   "Whatever," scoffs Dadguy, "I've read Twilight, you know!"

   Bwahahahaaaaa! That's my guy. My sweet, sweet Dadguy!

You Do You

   Last night I was chatting with a group of women from my neighborhood. We are Utah-Mormon women, so that means we are also all in the same church group. It came up that a newly "empty-nester" couple had sold their home and were in the process of downsizing.  I fantasized out loud about downsizing.

   The things. They pile up.

   Sick of cleaning the house, and yard work, and dinner, and, and, and... Like a dumb-ass I listed all the things that suck down my days. One of the women looks at me and says "why don't you outsource some of it?"

   Actually, I have been considering getting a guy  or a crew or someone to come in and prune and prep the yard for winter. Or, ya know, just let everything go to heck the way I do every year. I angst every year till it snows for really-reals, and then, oh well.
   I curse myself for that decision every spring as I muck out the flowerbeds.

   I say, "yeah, I've been considering that." Sweet visions of a truck full of guys to do all the things so I don't have to.

   "They have these things called schools, you know," she smirks back at me, "you could send your kids there and it would free you up for everything else."

   Siiiiiiighhhhhhh....

   I forgot. This particular woman has raised her children, all of whom are hyper- successful and happy products of public education and a good, solid wallop of higher education to boot. We have had a conversation before where she kindly explained to me what a disaster it will be if my kids don't get a diploma and a degree or better, several degrees.

   Look. I don't think homeschooling is for everyone. If you send your kids to the local public school or go charter or private.... whatever. It's your thing. You do you.

   I get that not everyone approves of what we do, or believe that it is a good idea. At all.

   We homeschool. 

   It is difficult and exhausting.

   But.

   Why on earth would I outsource one of my favorite things?  Why would I chuck all the personal revelation from my God, all of the gains my children have made, and all of the blessings?

   My fault for putting Homeschooling on the list of what my day is. 

   Let me be clear: Homeschool is up there with food, raising my kids, and prayer.  Not out sourcing any of it. Except for the occasional trip to Del Taco.

  Because tacos.

  Sometimes you just need a big bag of tacos, and maybe a crew of guys to fix up the yard.

Hate

I am so very, very done with the overuse of the word. 

Every time I turn around, people are applying the term to other people, their actions, and beliefs in such a grand sweeping label  that it is now just pissing me off.

You believe something that I don't like or disagree with? Then you are "hateful." That idea is "hateful," that ideology is "hateful."

People seem to be using it when they mean "thoughtless" or "different priorities," or "paradigm I don't like."

At this point the word means "hateful,' about as much as "literally" actually means "literally" in the mouth of a Millenial. (hint: it now can just mean "very," or "really"....  it literally doesn't mean literally anymore)

Stop it. Stop using that word. The word HATE and HATEFUL. It no longer means ANYTHING.

Failing Sucks

Well. 

Here I sit in the ruins of a Saturday. 

What a miserable, unfortunate day. 

I tried to rest up from my hectic week. I tried to be good wife. I tried to be a good mother. Tried to take care of a list of things that really needed to be done. 

Tried and failed. 

We talk about failure and failing a good bit as a family, or at least I talk to the kids about it. How it's a good thing. How that's the way we learn and grow. 

Seems to me that this was not one of those "good" fails. 

At least the only take-away i seem to come up with, alone at the laptop after a nice, ugly cry, is that next time I oughta just pick one thing and do it and to heck with the rest. 

My Pearl reminded me that we made it to her 8:30am soccer game, and that I was there to "support her" and that was a good thing.

... so I guess it should be said that I didn't screw absolutely EVERYTHING up.

Yay.

What The Duck?

First thing this morning I see this. 

So. Apparently the duck is not narcoleptic. He just likes to kick it in the middle of the road. Is matter of preference. I guess.

Stupid Duck

   Once upon a time there was a duck who suffered from narcolepsy.

   What's that you say? You don't know what narcolepsy is?! Do you not know how to use a dictionary?
   Go right on ahead. I'll wait.
   Great! Now that you know that narcolepsy is a medical condition that causes the sufferer to fall asleep at just about any time, you will not be shocked at the beginning of my story.

   Once upon a time there was a duck who suffered from narcolepsy.

   What's that you say? You don't see how falling asleep all the time is a "medical condition?" Well, just imagine that nearly any time you sat down to relax, you may or may not just go to sleep. Imagine that you were headed out to take a lovely springtime walk and right outside your yard, in the middle of the road there was a duck taking a snooze. Iridescent green head tucked under wing, looking like a pillow on the asphalt.

   Can you see how the might not work out so well for the bird?

   Well. I can think of a few mishaps a duck like that might encounter after napping in the road. Like getting run over. By a car.

   No, it didn't get run over. But it could've! Like, if the car was really quiet, and the driver wasn't watching for ducks.

   Anyways.

   The kids ran out and woke up the duck, and it flew away.

Ordinary

Gonna post. I swear Imma gonna post!

One of the blogs I have been following for, like, forever, has got the Patriarchy Blues and put out a call for blogs. Plain old, everyday type bloggery.

I want to oblige with a post. 

But I keep struggling with those same PBs. The regular everyday kind, plus the special brand of Patriarchy that comes with my religion. Sigh.

Technically I know I should go and have a chat with my Bishop, but that's a double whammy. Pretty sure there is nothing he can tell me that I haven't already found, or don't already know. Plus if he ends up saying something like, "well, women have the babies and men hold the Priesthood." That's just whammy numero uno. Whammy numero dos is when I become one of "those women."

I read this article the other day... and it starts to sound pretty good, till I realized that it's just a fancy version of the Babies/Priesthood explanation. With trees!

... and I want to be able to just put my concerns to bed, but those suckers are like four year olds on crack. The night before leaving for Disneyland. 

Perhaps I should blog about all the muck spinning around my head. Maybe it would help me work through it. But a few weeks ago I decided to just doubt my doubts for a while. So. Naptime, I guess? Y'all are spared a theological trip through the under brain of themama.

You're Welcome!

... and get this, I apparently can't type in my own blog addy correctly, so I just went on a random and nutsy side trip down Google-Yourself lane. Seriously? Someone posed as me to make a random comment on a random Tumblr.

Since I know ya don't want to go looking through the comment section... they posed as me to say:

"Hey, jsut wanted tosay my personal experience with Minecraft is that kids love it My daughter even had a minecraft birthday party: http://becauseiamthemama.blogspot.com/2011/02/minecraft-birthday.html
Thanks for keeping kids engaged and going the extra mile to make learning fun!"


What the heck?!? Bwahahahaaahaaaaa!

NEW TOPIC:
Experiencing relief on a visceral level that Pearls ball python actually ate for the first time in three months. He had gone from eating live kills once a week to zilch over the winter, and since we just got this guy last October, it was NERVEWRACKING. I he sick? Is this normal for him?  Finally he deigned to eat a warmed up pre-killed rat in the dark of the night. Just like a little, special snowflake, diva serpent. 

"I just need my space! Don't watch me eat! makes me uncomfortable! Does this rat make me look fat?"

Having pets sucks. 

Reading the Reckoners series by Brandon Sanderson. Just started the second book. So far, I highly recommend it. Pretty curious as to where it's headed. Is like a strange mashup of X-men and Marvel.... only there are no heroes. Anyone who gets the powers are turned evil. Yikes!

Thinking I might just start photoblogging to document the horrific amount of work I have put into, and continue to put into homeschooling and the stupid yard. 

There. Everyday and ordinary. Scattered, but ordinary life.

Bah

That last post.

frickitty-frakkity.

Since I have last written, my Birdy and Pearl both have been diagnosed with the same thing I have. I just can't even. There is something heartbreaking in a 10 year old crying real tears over a toasted bagel that she can't have, because gluten.

Bagels and doughnuts... there really isn't any kind of decent GF substitute for those two items. I have decided that GF stands for GrieF.

Yeah... guess I'm not really ready to write about all of those changes and struggles just yet.

I am pondering lately about heartbreak, pain, and struggles. I mean, I have my fair share, but I know many people who have dealt with worse and ARE dealing with worse.  It isn't a competition, and I'm not interested in laying my heart out right this minute, but I tell you, my struggles are making me brittle where I had thought I would be strong.

Which makes me feel like the biggest weenie. Makes me think about the book A Town Like Alice. The start of the book chronicles a bunch of European women and children in a seven month long forced march from one part of Malaya to the other at the start of WW2. Along the road a goodly number of women die off from one thing or another... many just aren't hardy enough physically or mentally.

I used to think of myself as tough. Now, I am pretty sure I would be numbered among the women who just couldn't hack it.

Bah.

Sacrament

I have an auto-immune disease that was diagnosed when I was thirteen. Over the course of my life this disorder has caused me all sorts of grief, but as long as I keep up in treating it, it’s not likely to kill me directly. 

As one doctor who helped in diagnosing and treating a recent manifestation of the disease said, “it’s not life-threatening, but it’s certainly life-altering.” 

A little over four years ago I stopped eating gluten in an attempt to get some of the sideways mess of my health a little more under control.

And it has help exactly that much. A little.

But it has helped, and as far as I understand it, my situation will only get worse from here on in unless I stay off gluten… so, yeah. 

Yay.

It’s not like I have Celiacs, just to be clear. My body reacts to the gluten, but it does it over time with joint pain and rashes and a few other phantom-like symptoms, rather than a violent, instant sick. 

Unfortunately, even when I am eating like an OCD monk I still have eczema and arthritis, so I’m always on a spectrum of discomfort to one degree or another.

I could probably just eat the bit of bread that comes with the sacrament with little to no immediate health bomb, but I have always been in wards with at least two or three Celiacs, so it has been easy to skip the bread and have whatever substitute they are already using for them. I just mention I need to have whatever GF fare they are already bringing to the Celiacs, and the Deacons add me to their list of people to deliver a Rice Chex, from a separate tray.

At least, it seems simple until the sacramental prayer has been said over the bread that has been torn and blessed by a young man holding the office of Priest, along with the tray of GF cereal bits.  Then the twelve and thirteen year old boys come streaming down the aisles. A solemn procession to pass the Sacrament to the waiting congregation. 

That’s when I get a little anxious. If the boy who has the tray is new, or doesn’t know who I am, or simply doesn't see me, should I just take a bit of bread along with the rest of my family as the tray makes it’s silent way down the row I am sitting on? Should I wait and hope the kind of sacrament I should be partaking will make it’s way to me? Do I just trust that it will get figured out?

I’ll be honest, when I am visiting other wards on vacation I just take the bread. It makes me dizzy to even contemplate making a fuss or introducing myself before the start of the meeting to ask that they bless and serve me some gluten free item or other that I provide or see if they have something they are already passing for Celiacs.

I would rather suffer a little illness or increased pain than go there.

So every Sunday I wait, trying to catch the eye of whichever young man is holding two separate trays in my own home ward.

It has been years of increased anxiety every Sunday as I navigate this. No making it up. I get a little weepy. 

I don’t mind being the special snowflake that I am, but I do mind calling attention to myself and requiring special treatment. Especially at a time set aside for sacred reflection it bugs me to feel like my needs make passing the Sacrament logistically difficult.

The past few months have been this; the hyper-vigilance over the passing of the bread, the weepiness… but with a lessening of the anxiety.

Maybe because I have been in this ward for two and a half years now, and I have gotten comfortable with an increased trust in the boys who live here. Maybe it is just the fact that I have been making a conscious effort to increase my spiritual living.

There is now something sacred about scanning the procession for the bearer of my Sacrament, and he, upon catching my eye has a moment of recognition. He was looking for me, among just a few others. I, personally am one of a particular few that he has a special duty to take a sacrament to. Along with the regular bits of torn bread in the tray in his other hand, he is looking for me.

That He might feed me that which will nourish and strengthen me as I renew my covenants. 

The past few weeks this realization has had me bawling like a baby, because I see that it has always been thus. 

The Savior of the World has always been there to serve the congregations of this world, but with a personal Sacrament just for me. He ministers one by one.

By the time the the water is blessed, and I take a cup from the same tray as all those who sit on the row with me, and drink, I ponder on the things I have learned. 

I miss bread, I do, but I am grateful for the tender mercies held out to me by The Good Shepherd. I am grateful for this example of how the Atonement works one individual at a time. It is a good reminder. 

This lesson. It is not a trade, but it is a consolation.

Hoo-sus Poo-sus

We've been homeschooling for almost two years, and that means that Henry is the only one of my kids I have watched learn how to read from the start. At least... that's what I thought.

After witnessing the process, I think I can't really say I "taught" him how to read. At best, I escorted him through the experience. Language is such a funny thing... the speaking, and the reading, and the writing... it is far more organic than I had realized.

I suspect that none of the girls' teachers actually "taught" them to read any more that I taught Hen.

One of the interesting things is the part where the reading level of the brains of the kid outstrips the words they actually know. That happened to Henry the other day.

We were on our way to the Land with our little Yorkie dog, Alice. She'd just gotten a haircut the day before and was shivering a little. Henry was sitting behind me in the van, trying to warm her up, and I overheard him say, 

"I'm gonna warm you up, Alice!" He waved his hands around and pronounced  "Hoo-sus Poo-sus! You're WARM!"

"Hoo-sus Poo-sus?" I asked. The words sounded odd, but right at the edge of my understanding, the way that he'd said them.

"Yeah! Hoo-sus Poo-sus! Abracadabra!"

"Where did you read that?" I was laughing by now.

"Calvin and Hobbs, he says "hoo-sus poo-sus and does magic!"

HOCUS POCUS! 

It's the hazards of not enough Bugs Bunny in the lives of children.

I admit, I've been saying it as a pretend  swear word ever since.