Wordless Wednesday - five months and the living room (sorry it took so long, Mom)

Outed by my breath

There are several things I do when I think no one is looking.

Make flirty faces in the mirror.
Dance.
Catch up on celebrity gossip.
Do crazy things to my hair.
Read Twilight.

Another one of my "down low" hobbies is eating chocolate. I'm a master at sneaking in nibbles on the sly.

Until.

Ouro Branco caught me chewing.




"Whatchoo eating Mom?"
(swallow) "Nothing."
"Open your mouth."
(quick teeth swipe) "Ahhhhhhhh."
"Come closer."
(I lean in.)

SNIFF!"Chocolate!"

Dang it.

"A best friend is a sister that destiny forgot to give you."

I talk about Brazil entirely too much on this 'ere website. It's true. I spend oodles of web space wallowing about friends I miss rather than expounding upon the wonderful friends that I have HERE. Part of this is due to the fact that a lot of my American friends read this blog. And it's somewhat embarrassing to rave publicly about your besties. I don't know why. I didn't make the rules.

I have no idea why I've been blessed with so many wonderful friends. Enough to bore you all to death. But today I will only pick one - I want to talk about my friend HARMONY.

(This is her REALLY REAL NAME. No funky acronyms today.)

Let's go back fifteen years ago to the suburbia of Detroit. I was a pretty nerdy teenager in desperate need of friendship. My prayers were answered in the form of another Mormon family moving in NEXT DOOR with SIX KIDS.

(Okay. That just doesn't happen in Michigan, for all you Utahns out there.)

Well, naturally I just about popped my zits with excitement. I made brownies and everything, and I think I raided our rose bush as well. (Hi Mom!)

I found my soul twin in HARMONY - she deserves all caps. I guess my name should have been MELODY. (Lame joke alert! Lame joke alert!)

HARMONY and I went through a lot together. Lots of crushes, mean girls, school troubles, lame-o parents, and stake dances. Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, stake dances. We went on to college together. We saw each other change and mature and become who we were meant to be. We met our husbands and picked apart and discussed and overthought every little move til the wee hours every night. We got married. We have helped each other deal with sick loved ones, wayward loved ones ... and lack of loved ones.

Sprawled on a double bed, legs dangling off and balancing one arm in the air just for fun, we have grown up together.

Sometimes it's a rough road.

And the hardest, longest bump - so far - is finally over.

After years of faith-testing childlessness and countless tears, HARMONY finally has a beautiful baby girl. Read about her incredible journey here.


It is amazing to me that because I love HARMONY better than I love myself, I feel as if I'M the one who finally has little Megan in my arms. I shouted and danced three times for every tear I've shed for Megan's absence - and that's saying a lot.

Because that's what being a friend is all about. Laughing together. Crying together. Sharing every joy.

(Harms? Here's your happy note. I am so, so happy for you, beb.)

Where do I apply for being a Dad?

It sounds pretty cush.

If you're standing right next to the sink, The Kids blow right past you, going to the other end of the house to ask MOM for a drink.

If you want to take a shower, The Kids let you take a shower.

If The Kids get hurt, they scream for MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

If you get sick, you get to wallow in bed. MOM's there to let you. Whereas if MOM gets sick, DAD goes to work like every other day.

If The Kids want help wiping a poopy butt, they request MOM.

MOM is the preferential meat-cutter.

MOM is the first and foremost fight-breaker-upper.

MOM is the book reader.

MOM is the tooth brusher.

DAD just gets to play.

....

But then, when The Kids want to cuddle? Who do they go to?

M

O

M

Our fall "break" that wasn't a break at all

So were SUPPOSED to go visit my dear friend Kim in California, but her kid had the gall to come down with Fifth Disease last weekend. Apparently it's fatal to pregnant women and their fetuses. The nerve.

Instead I was faced with a full week of school-less, energetic kids. I did what any other sane mother would do. I overbooked.

Monday: First exercise class (it takes up half the morning!) and then off to Home Depot. Not only do they have CAR CARTS, but they are already decorated for Christmas. We spent a full twenty minutes staring at Santa Claus in an airplane. Then we got all the boards and doo-dads and gadgets needed to fix up Little Prince's bed, curtains, and shelves. The afternoon was spent externally sweating and internally cursing those three items.

He was pleased with the result, however.















We decided to decorate with original artwork, since the frames' previous contents were deemed "dumb." Obviously, our homemade skills are anything but.




















Tuesday was ZOO DAY! We'd heard some incredible things about the Phoenix zoo, and were, therefore, pumped. We invited some friends to go with us, but they promptly got sick upon arrival. People must be really desperate to avoid us.

(I put my kids in matching shirts, Daddy's cell phone scrawled on their arms in permanent marker, and lectured so thoroughly on stranger danger that I probably scarred them for life. Anyone else paranoid in packed, public places?)




















By far their favorite thing about the zoo was the splash park. Bathing suits? Who needs 'em.




















I had visions of framing this giant oyster shot with the words "My Pearls" beautifully calligraphied on top. But My Pearls weren't having it.




















Wednesday: After exercise class (it takes up half the morning!), we headed off to the temple. The kids love the Big Jesus Statue, although they promptly hid as soon as I pulled out the camera.




















After running walking reverently around the visitors center and pushing all the tour guide buttons reverently asking questions of gospel significance and trying to jump in the fountain contemplating their lives on the temple grounds, it was off to visit Daddy at work! They think he takes care of the fish tank all day. PLUS he has a candy dish. They all want Daddy's job when they grow big.

Wednesday night was spent in the emergency room. Ouro Branco shoved beads up his nose. I giggled the whole time, except for the part that they strapped him down and shoved long scary instruments up his nose. Then I cried. But mostly I giggled. Really. Isn't having beads shoved up a kid's nose some kind of official initiation into the Mommy's Club? I've survived hazing.

Thursday, our plans for a picnic in the park went out the window when Little Prince developed a fever and a headache.

Friday, our plans for the science museum went out the window when it was confirmed that Little Prince had influenza. (Not the piggy kind - just the regular, home grown I WANT TO DIE kind.)

Saturday, our plans for dinner with friends went out the window due to said influenza and a badly planned midterm for said friend. Homework stinks.

Sunday, plans for making plans this week at church went out the window due to (again) said influenza.

Today, any plans for finally feeling good about the second trimester got FORCEFULLY BOOTED OUT THE WINDOW when I got influenza, too.

Happy fall break.

Empty boxes and full hearts

We finally unpacked the last box.

I know, I know. It's been four months. This box has been sitting in our closet for the majority of them. But -really! - we were unable to put it away until now. It held piano music.

Yesterday we arranged and rearranged - and sat on our haunches and arranged theoretically - the living room until it was JUST PERFECT. Our (new-to-us) piano is where it was always meant to be, and it has its own handy dandy Piano Music Holder Thingy.

I sat on the freshly-washed carpet (we were ambitious yesterday) and s p r e a d. Piles of music surrounded me. There was a pile for country, a pile for Broadway, a pile for guitar, a pile for classic. And more. Many of the sheets were unbound, and Canon in D was all mixed up with Fur Elise and Blues Boogie and Sonatina in G and You'll Be in My Heart.

It took a while, but everything is nicely organized and beckoning to be played.

This morning, by some miracle, things were running smoothly. My Man and I were ready, the church bags packed and the kids playing quietly. It was still two hours til church and I'd already read the lesson.

My feet steered themselves toward the living room. I opened the piano lid, feeling the ivories beneath my fingers - smooth and promising. The Church-y Music Drawer yielded a song I hadn't played in a long time - a song laden with memories and emotion. "Firmes em Ti," or "Steadfast in You."

(Open up another tab and listen to it here while you finish reading. Please? Pretty please? And just so you know, I don't know the people in the video. Sorry.)

Images of my precious youth flooded my mind. I saw sweet Dayse - so quiet, so sweet. Always willing to take on an extra service project and ease my burdens. I saw Patricia. Smiling, of course. Cracking crazy comments and making sure no one is left out. I saw Alexia. Probably with reggae on her earphones, but with her testimony always on her tongue. My Jessica. So insecure. Spilling her heart out to me, wetting my shoulder as I wet hers.

They - along with an army of girls and boys from all over the Jundiai area - sang that song in a regional fireside over a year ago. I got to play the piano for them. For months we rehearsed. There was plenty of goofing off - plenty of exasperated leaders and threats and stern looks and telling-offs. I doubted whether it would really happen.

The day arrived. The projector was broken. One of our soloists didn't show. Someone forgot the sheet music for one of the songs. Two of the wards were an hour late and I was holding back laughter and "I told you sos."

And we began. The opening prayer invited the Spirit and asked the participants to be open to His word. The light from those amazing young men and women filled the room. The audience was silent as they poured their whole souls into the music. The notes and our hearts swelled. When they sang the final chorus:

(in English)
Steadfast in you
Steady and true
Abounding in the good works
That you sent us here to do
Like a million stars
Lighting up the night
We are your youth
Ever strong
Ever true
Ever steadfast in you

(Complete English lyrics here.)

Tears rained down - because these teenagers really meant it. They lived those words. They exemplified what being a Latter-day Saint is all about, and their music penetrated us with the truth and naked honesty in their voices.

As I played their song this morning, I heard those voices all over again. They sang in my ear, accompanying me, whispering words of encouragement and hope: We love you, Becky. We love you and we miss you. Thank you for being our leader and a part of our lives. You really did help us.

I miss them. I miss them so badly.

I am so grateful for the chance I had to know them. I am so grateful that they let me into their lives. I am so grateful for the challenges and trials they presented - how they pushed me to become a better leader. I will never forget their faces - imprinted on my heart with undeniable power.

They changed me. And I'm so glad they did. That steadfast, mighty army that I got to captain for a very little while.

I miss them. I miss them so badly.

Titles are severely overrated

So I joined the PTO.

I was a little nervous at my first meeting. I didn't know anyone else there; I was late, and I realized upon arriving that everyone else seemed to have some kind of chique-y planner. Black. With nice, organized side tabs. While I brought my full-on 12-month wall calendar with a different beach featured every month and scribbled all over the place with multi-colored crayons. (Because pens in my house are a legend.)

So we all went around and introduced ourselves, most everyone cracking some joke or making a witty comment. Somehow my Clever Quota seemed to have been met that day, and I was coming up dry. Then the lady before me introduced herself.

"Hey, everyone, I'm _____ ______. I'm soooo not your typical PTO Mom. I don't bake or scrapbook or do any kinds of crafts. But hey, I'm here!"

Everyone laughed appreciatively and there were several shouts of "me, neither!" and "I must be in the right place!" and "if that were a requirement, I don't think anyone would be here!"

This plunged me into at least several minutes of deep thought, since I'm sitting here in front of the computer typing about it.

Cuz here's the thing. I scrapbook. I craft. I even bake bread.

So ... what does THAT mean?

Deep Thought Scenario #2: I was visit taught last week. I really like the two ladies who share the prophet's message with me every month. This month the message is on Raising the Divine Generation (or something to that effect.) But one sister, after giving her heartfelt testimony, made some derogatory remarks about "those perfect ladies who somehow manage to read scriptures every day and actually do Family Home Evening."

I read my scriptures every day. And we have FHE every week.

So ... what?

A "Molly Mormon" is an uncomplimentary term given to Latter-day Saint women who seemingly "do it all." A Molly bakes. Scrapbooks. Studies her scriptures. Never forgets FHE or family scripture study. Writes in her journal. Does her visiting teaching on time. Has ten children. Never gossips or swears. Cleans her house regularly. Attends all church meetings. Rotates mattresses. Memorizes General Conference talks. Fixes toilets. Etc., etc. Essentially, she's perfect. Shoo-in celestial material.

(Really, she's what we all WANT TO BE. It's true.)

Most importantly, a Molly Mormon

embodies the cheery, chipper and domesticated female in Latter-day Saint culture.

(That's from wikipedia.com, the fountain of all truth. They even have definitions for Mormon slang now. Dang.)

I don't really consider myself a Molly (mostly because of the cheerful requirement), but I've been called a Molly plenty of times. And usually in a disparaging tone: "Oh, whatever, Becky, we know you're a total Molly and can't identify with us."

[clears throat .... gears for soapbox ....]

Here's the thing. The point. Where I'm Going With All This.

I'm trying to be as Christ-like as possible. That has nothing to do, however, with quilting. (Pretty sure the Lord doesn't quilt.) I quilt because I like to. I scrapbook because I enjoy it. Not because I'm trying to fit a stereotype or feel obligated to be crafty by my church leaders. (Pretty sure none of them do, either.)

I'm trying to model my life after His, and yet there are times I get made fun of for remembering to pray first thing in the morning.

But listen. While I have a very firm testimony of the truthfulness of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints - of its plan of happiness - and that that plan of happiness WORKS - I also have a very firm testimony that YOU CAN BE DOING ALL THE RIGHT THINGS AND STILL BE IN A TOTAL FUNK.

(When I speak in all capitols, I must be serious.)

If life were perfect every time we remembered to do all the "right things" (scripture study, prayer, church attendance, service with a smile, etc.) then EVERYONE would do the right things. Instead, we can be doing everything right and still have everything go wrong.

That's what faith is all about.

Everyone - the Molliest of Mollies or the Jackest of Jack Mormons - feels the full range of emotions and must be subject to opposition. Without sad times and trials, there is no growth.

So what if I am a Molly. It's not a bad thing. It doesn't mean I don't have shortcomings and weaknesses and (gasp!) sins. I do. A lot of them. It also doesn't mean I don't have bad days. And I do. A lot of them.

I kind of want to make a new bumper sticker.

"I'm a Molly Mormon - WHAT'S IT TO YOU?!"

But maybe that would be counterproductive.

I currently worship a five-year-old.

This is Little Prince (LP) and Little Prince's best friend (LPBF).


They are cute. They are in kindergarten. They both have freckles. And a love of all things outdoors.

(Their names rhyme - sort of - and that is also SO SUPER COOL.)

LPBF has recently become somewhat of a hero around the That Girl household. Because LP let him do what he would not let either me or My Man do.




I love you, LPBF. I love you.

In which I suffer for apparently no reason at all

So we've now been in this 'ere country for going on four months. Crazy.

I'm amazed at the very hard concept of reverse culture shock. We read about it. We were warned. But DUDE. It's real.

One of my biggest problems is the fact that I start every other sentence with "when we lived in Brazil ...," and the fact is - no one cares. Not really. They act politely interested, but in truth they're thinking about their dinner or their kids or some TV show or the fact that I have a huge zit right below my nose. And that's hard for me. I've had this overwhelming experience that has shaped the very person that I am, and I can't talk about it.

A much smaller aspect of culture shock is some moral quandaries that I've been experiencing.

Quan-da-ry: –noun, plural -ries. a state of perplexity or uncertainty, esp. as to what to do; dilemma.

Somehow I feel GUILTY for living here.

Does that make sense?

We have a dishwasher. And air conditioning. And a very active church right down the road. Our kids go to amazing schools and we can eat Mexican food whenever we want. Everything is so EASY here, and I can't help but think about the millions of people (some of which are my dear, dear friends) who have it pretty darn hard.

I've blogged before about being accidentally crunchy. I was somewhat interested as to whether or not I would continue to be, once we moved back. The answer is: yesno.

I no longer make my own cheerios. (Tchahright.) But I do continue to use Tupperware instead of baggies and cloths instead of paper towels. It's ingrained.

The quan-da-ry comes into play in the grocery store.

I wander up and down the aisles, salivating over CONVENIENCE: frozen dinners, cake mixes, Rice-a-roni, instant au gratin potatoes and Hamburger Helper. But I somehow can't bring myself to buy them.

I imagine my Brazilian friends standing behind my shoulder, looking at me with understanding eyes, but somehow sad.

Am I selling out?

I'm already anticipating the comments: "Gimme a break, Bex, buy the stupid instant rice and canned beans and call it a day. Who. Freakin. Cares." And you know what, you're right. And I have, to some degree. We have frozen chicken nuggets in our freezer and I did buy ready-made spaghetti sauce. But I just ... can't ... bring ... myself ... to go the whole shebang.

Don't know why. Maybe I'm being a martyr. Maybe I'm crunchier than I thought. Or maybe I'm just weird.

Any bets on how long I last?

Monday. No fanfare.

Just working on my "brush strokes" - one gentle sweep at a time ....

(see President Eyring's talk for more information)

I'm worth $250,000 dead

That's what our insurance company told me. Or, rather, what we told our insurance company.

For the past forever, we have been discussing the happy subject of dismemberment, paralyzation, blindness, chronic illness and death. It helps my husband sleep better at night knowing that we won't be destitute if he conks (euphemism #1). Me, not so much.

It does make for interesting conversation though.

"Oh, c'mon, hun, you could TOTALLY still do your job without legs. Legs aren't that big a deal to a CFO."

"The chances of you coming down with some funky disease are much more likely than breaking your back. I think."

"So if you're burned from head to toe, will it take you more than five years to recover? Or do we go with the fifteen year long-term disability plan .... It's HOW MUCH? Nah. You'll snap back."

Oh, yeah. Makes for great nighttime relaxation.

So we finally added up how much moo-lah I want if My Man bites the dust (euphemism #2): enough to pay off the house, monthly expenses til the kids are out of school, college tuitions, weddings, missions, and putting me through school so I don't have to eat out of garbage cans, and came up with roughly Bill Gates' net worth. (And apparently we're only having four kids, cuz that's what we budgeted for.)

After many compromises and a few tears, we signed twice as many papers as our mortgage. I'm now prepared for My Worst Case Scenario (euphemism #3).

Sweet dreams, dear.

Then the subject turned to moi. Because seriously, what would My Man DO without me? He can't even pack Little Prince's lunchbox without asking me a question at every step. (Sorry, hun, it's TRUE. And cute.)

Salary.com has a very interesting calculator, determining what a stay-at-home mom is worth. You put in how many kids you have, where you live, and how many hours a week you put in for various job descriptions like:

(they have graciously provided averages)

Housekeeper	16.5
Day Care Center Teacher	14.7
Cook	13.1
Computer Operator	9.2
Facilities Manager	8.6
Van Driver	7.3
Psychologist	7.2
Laundry Machine Operator	7.2
Janitor	7.1
Chief Executive Officer	5.5
Interior Designer	0
Administrative Assistant	0
Event Planner	0
Bookkeeper	0
General Maintenance Worker	0
Groundskeeper	0
Nutritionist	0
Staff Nurse - RN	0
Plumber	0
Logistics Analyst

I tried to say that I put in 45 hours a week as a Day Care Center teacher, Psychologist, Staff Nurse and CEO - each - but apparently

We understand if it sometimes feels longer, but a week can never have more than 168 hours. Please re-enter your hours.

Poop.

But hey now. Let's be honest. If I kicked the bucket (what am I on? euphemism#4?), my husband would not hire a full time housekeeper, laundress, cook, chauffeur and - what was it? - event planner. TCHAH. He would have to put the kids in daycare, sure (or move closer to Grandma) - but realistically, he would "just" take over my responsibilities and be very, very tired all the time. He would NOT pay someone a six-figure salary to take over for me.

This site was obviously invented by slightly bitter stay-at-home moms that need a dollar figure assigned to them to feel good about themselves.

Salary.com determined that the time mothers spend performing 10 typical job functions would equate to an annual salary of $122,732 for a stay-at-home mom.

Pur-lease.

First of all, tell me truthfully, ladies. Do you REALLY spend 16.5 hours a week cleaning your house? More than two hours a day? Every day? *coughyeahrightcough* Not to mention more than 9 hours a week working on your computer - that's JOB RELATED? If you do, let me shake your hand and give you a cookie. And tell Big Foot and Loch Ness hi for me in la-la-land.

The truth is, I know how much I'm worth. I'm priceless.


And I feel good about myself.