I give up on August. Meet me in September.

I'm post-dating this entry.
It's actually mid-September and I've been spending the past six months trying to do this blog thing all backwards, remembering things that had happened, and then posting about them.
Here's the facts:
I'm doing some great LIVING, and some awful remembering.
I love summer. 
Here are a few pictures from August.
It was great!

Hiking.

Girls Camp.

News from our missionary.

Family visitors. 

 Kimball's.

 Sunday driving.

 Visits from Enrique.

 Sister time.

Together time.

 Tomato time.

A week in Manhattan.

 Gardening.

 More Hiking.

(Sleeping Giant State Park, CT)

 Friendships.

If you build it, they WILL come

A couple of weeks ago Mr. Dub directed the building of what he called a platform for stacking firewood. I watched transfixed as they recycled our old deck boards into what, in my mind, appeared to be coming together as an ideal summer stage. I was delighted! But the workers had a hard time catching my vision.

Although he had doubts, Dub is a committed believer in the phrase 

Happy Wife = Happy Life. 

LOOK! He agreed to let me use the platform, and we pulled off a really spontaneous, REALLY EXCELLENT Skit Night. The 'burg's got talent.

 Friends, neighbors and extended family showed up. We provided the popcorn and lemonade, and the guests brought their A-game music, skits, magic, jokes and game shows to share.

We cheered, 

we clapped, 

we smiled and laughed.

It was an evening of FUN!

bonus points for creativity

It's a crazy world, we all know it.

In the busy hub of our family life, sit down dinners together feel momentous.

I want to celebrate every time we do it; which is why, I think, we have table traditions. Guests at our table are often taken by surprise when we suddenly yell in unison, fingers on noses, and when we break out the question of the night.

These are moments I never want to take for granted, and also the reason why mixing it up a bit at meal time seems important to me.

Last night we tried something new.

I left six letter tiles (think scrabble) at each place setting.

While we enjoyed our meal, the instructions were to turn the tiles into a word, a phrase or an anagram representing POSITIVE things to say about our individual days' experiences.

This attempt to share instantly became a game of word invention mockery--

['gno-lec': "being kissed by a gnome" although it turned into "something akin to full frontal snogging"]

--which I know to be my family's language of love (the mockery part).

['a-tit-i-a': "an enthusiastic salutation"]

I have teenagers, and I'm married to one as well.

I should have seen the writing on, well, the table.

['get-siq': "you're gonna get siq (accent on SIQ)"]

I will say that there was MUCH laughter. 

['heu-dar': "jumping up and down enthusiastically"]

When the game downgraded to bodily functions, (we laughed hardest, I won't deny it) I stood up to commence the clean up process, which, ironically, went quickly and painlessly because of the residual hysteria that ensued.

['log-ho': "what you proclaim in the bathroom 'ere you make a deposit in the porcelain bank"]

These are my people.

"Breaking News" (competitive class plays)

 Because of a snowstorm (NOT breaking news this winter) our High School's annual competitive class play competition was postponed until after our February vacation. You may or may not remember that I went on and on and on about last year's plays... I'll save you some time this year and just tell you that it's a tradition I love.

This year's Senior Class put on a very funny comic book style play called "Breaking News"  by Tim Kochenderfer

Sweet Mesquite was the most valued Stage Manager, but also spent some time on stage in some "extra" roles.

 Tragically the Senior Class did not win this year's competition

(although my most unbiased opinion is that they won hands-down)

 They did manage to unanimously sweep the Best Actor and Best Actress categories.

 All family members in attendance were entertained by the enthusiasm and talent on stage.

 When one of these kids goes on to wear Prada and make an Oscar acceptance speech, I'll be able to say I was a fan in their early years.

 I do love some good drama.

Bravo Seniors!!

our kids like being together

it makes me happy.

Being a saver: no regrets

I have a hard time parting with stuff.
Last night I found myself on the bedroom floor cleaning out my desk.
I had a brown paper bag for recycling paper, and the trash can for, um, well, parting with things that no longer made the cut (an Ingrid Michaelson CD case with no disk in it, a few candy wrappers and some leaf-eared stickers).
I stumbled across a two-page list of notes in Spanish I must have typed in 1988 for my missionary homecoming talk (a keeper!) and a more recent note on pink lined paper that made me laugh out loud.
Mr. Dub was across the room preparing his talk for Sacrament Meeting today.  I brought him the note and told him "THIS is why I save things."  He used the note in his talk this morning, to illustrate the power of compassion in the family.  Two members of our family sitting in the pew were stunned right into a petrified state when they heard him quoting the note over the pulpit.  No one dared move a muscle for fear of being identified.  I'm telling you--these little nuggets (hee hee) come back to enlighten the world.
In the adult Sunday School class that followed, we could hardly get on with the prepared material because everyone was so intent on discovering the identity of the note-writing child.  I took the fall and said it was me.  ("Dear Mr. Dub...")

On the ride home from church, we learned that the note-writer was mad at the offending sibling for having taken the complete set of Diary of a Wimpy Kid books without asking.  Apparently there is a scene in the book that mimics this scenario, thus, in retribution, the note.
In the end, there wasn't much compassion behind the note at all.
We also discussed agency.  (You can fit a lot of discussion in to a 30 minute ride home from church)  You can choose to do whatever you want in life... but you had better be prepared for the consequences, good or bad.  
Good:  a memorable object lesson on compassion that an entire church congregation will remember.  
Bad:  risking discovery of questionable behavior by entire church congregation.  
Here's the note:

This one's going back in the "save" pile.

laundry. and teens.

     Yesterday we had a snow day.  Really, it ended up being a rain day.  Rained and rained and rained from the moment the sun came up until we all put ourselves to bed.  COLD and cheerless.  No school: yes, and sleeping in: yes.  However; there aren't really a lot of fun outdoor options on a day this raw and bleak.  So... when you have a FUN indoor mom like me, you get to clean out closets and drawers.  This is an announcement that, shockingly, gets mostly moans, groans and inaudible mumbling when announced at breakfast.  With three daughters each about two years apart in age who should carry printed hash tags like #don'tWEARmyBRA! and #TAKEoffMYsocks! and #ISthatMYshirt?!? a group activity dealing with clothing can be either highly amusing or unbearably miserable.  We also have the random eight-year-old boy to throw in the mix, who can instantly ignite either extreme.  We had a little of both yesterday until, like manna from heaven, a neighbor boy called asking if the little flame thrower could come over and play.  Then there was peace. (Mostly.)
     A portion of the day went something like this:
Me: Girls, I want you to empty your drawers of ALL clothing you no longer want or wear.  Bring me the things you are getting rid of.
     A short time later I found all three of them sitting in the oldest's room, giggling at her shirt collection.
Me: Hey, you three get to work and clean out your drawers!
     This was met with some resistance.  They decided it was much more entertaining to take turns and mock each other for either keeping or discarding their clothing.  I figured their approach was something akin to "getting along" and decided to leave them to their mocking and giggling.  Meanwhile, I went to work pushing through a few loads of laundry.
     In the laundry room (Let me preface this with: We have a pretty good, pretty simple approach to laundry.  Above the washer and dryer there are two wire shelves that hold eight labeled laundry baskets; one for each member of our family.  Instead of spending hours folding laundry, we empty the dryer directly into each person's laundry basket, and they are responsible to get their own clean laundry folded and put away.  It's not perfect, but it works)  I looked up at Mr. Dub's laundry basket and discovered his work shirt and pants hanging out.  I frequently get scolded for not taking his shirts and pants right out of the dryer and getting them hung up, so he doesn't have to spend so much time ironing.  Even though he knows I am not the only laundry queen in the house;  it's usually only the two of us lovebirds around when he finds his wrinkly clothes in a ball instead of on a hanger.  (note: That's not one of my most favorite husband-wife-together moments.)  I called in the last lovely daughter to do laundry, and pointed to the offending attire.
Me: What are you doing, putting Dad's clean work clothes in his laundry basket?!?
Her: Um, sorting them and putting them away...
Me: Haven't we talked about HANGING them up so they don't get wrinkly?
Her: Umm... Yes, but the tag said wrinkle-free!
Me: [jaw dropping slowly towards the floor] [then rendered speechless]
-then-
Me: You mean you took the time to read the tag, but you couldn't take the time to put them on hangers?!?...
Her: MOM... the TAG said WRINKLE FREE.
     This is where I started thinking calm, reassuring developmental-stage phrases like "this is why you have to EXPLAIN things to kids" and "you can't assume they understand what you think they already understand" to myself.  Then I went over the proper procedure for hanging Dad's work clothes in a tone of voice that probably did not match the tone of voice of the calm phrases I was hearing in my head.
     Later in the morning I was sitting at the dining room table sorting socks.  This is an activity that must take place about once every week.  When socks come out of the dryer, they frequently do not have a mate.  To cut down on the frustration of not having matches for socks, years ago I borrowed a technique from a friend:  I have a small basket or sturdy bag waiting by the dryer for single socks.  All socks that don't come out attached to their mate get put in the sock receptacle.  Over the years, we've amassed quite a collection of single socks that, no matter how much laundry gets washed, remain single.  They stay in a growing collection at the bottom of the pile.  Much to my dismay, they seem to remain the sock version of the singles bar; milling around together, but rarely finding a mate.  Yesterday I made a shocking discovery.  One of my daughters (who's identity I will protect, but believe me she's OUT and been given a tongue-lashing at home) thinks that putting dirty, balled up socks back in her drawers is much easier than tossing them next door to the laundry room.  I'm embarrassed to tell you how many socks she turned over to her mom-turned-laundry-cop.  I'm still washing this morning, and the single socks no longer fit in the bag.  She was made painfully aware that she was the reprehensible sock-hoarder keeping those poor socks single all this time.  AND, I'm sure she will be delighted to discover that this afternoon's pre-homework activity will be making matches of all the dirty socks I've washed since yesterday.  I'm going to make sure she's aware of how HAPPY she will be making some very lonely socks.
Teenagers and Laundry are not always a match made in heaven.

Love is...

Love is: grocery shopping for your wife.  After more than twenty years of shopping for our food, it's not the job I look forward to the most.  

Mr. Dub is a good man.  He offered to go food shopping on his way home from work last night.  All I had to do was email him a list.  If that's not true love, I don't know what is.

At the store he got so engrossed in finding  the items on his list that he inadvertently started pushing around and filling someone else's cart.  

The ol' switch-er-oo.   

He had no idea it wasn't his.  

(Until the cart owner confronted him.)

He shared the story with me over the phone.   I had to keep telling him to speak up

(which gets old fast)... 

until I realized I was holding the phone upside down. He came through loud and clear once I figured out how to hold the phone correctly.  

Then we laughed.

They say opposites attract.

In many areas, this is true for us.  

I find it comforting that we are both equally talented in other areas as well.

I'll take your grocery cart theft and raise you my phone incompetence.

Now that's true love.

Happy August!

Here we've rolled right into a new month, and hardly noticed.  It's been the battle of a scary something--high fevers and a sore throat; not at all a fun time for a sweet eleven year old who would much rather be at soccer camp.  She's been on the couch, in better moments reading some of her favorite standby books.  She shared an excerpt from The Diary of a Wimpy Kid series.  I'm a big fan.  I am also a big fan of The Giving Tree (by Shel Silverstein)... and of my 11-year old.  Which is why this little book blurb hit home--in a funny but frightening sort of way.

"There was this book Dad used to read to me every night called "The Giving Tree."  It was a really good book, but the back of it had a picture of the author, this guy named Shel Silverstein.  But Shel Silverstein looks more like a burglar or a pirate than a guy who should be writing books for kids.

Dad must have known that picture kind of freaked me out, because one night after I got out of bed, Dad said 

'If you get out of bed again tonight, you'll probably run into Shel Siverstein in the hallway.'"

Did anyone else ever wonder why a talented author of childrens books would choose a picture that makes you think ex-con?

(carry on.)

dinner and some espanol

We had tacos for dinner tonight, so maybe that's why things got a little spicy.
It started with personalizing the tortillas--
Padre tortilla.
Probably in honor of our padre, who wasn't there to partake.
Then there were the dance moves to the tune of sacapuntas, using stools as props; only they looked more like walkers, and the kids like feisty senior citizens.
I pointed this out, and it morphed into the race of the nursing home patients, as they hobbled behind makeshift walkers and completed the circuit.  Sometimes the humor gets irreverent.
I'm not very good at stifling my giggles.
The tune of sacapuntas isn't on the top ten list; it's the kids' favorite word in Spanish, and it's like music to their ears.  It means pencil sharpener.  These guys are not the red hot chili peppers, but their moves and tunes are caliente.

The church of Lambda Delta Sigma

Sunday we attended church meetings in Amherst.  Many times when we've driven to Enrique's dorm at UMass, we've passed the church building and pointed it out to the kids.  So many times, in fact, that when we turn onto Sunset Drive, they start to mock us:
"Look kids, there's the church building in Amherst!"
Sunday morning as we turned onto Sunset, one of the kids said "Aren't there Greek letters or something like that on the church?"  Then it dawned on us.  The church is set back off the road in a residential area, and when we would drive past the building, this precious, precious child was seeing the house along the street that was visible in the foreground.  EVERY time.

overheard in the laundry room

(from my sick bed, while under the influence of cold medicine)


Mr. Dub: Mesquite, come in here and help me.
Mesquite: what do you want me to do?
Dub: help me put away the laundry; this is girl stuff.  I don't know what belongs to who in here.
Mesquite: Just throw the stuff in the baskets.
Dub: But this is underwear! I don't know who it belongs to... and what if it's yours?  I don't want to touch your underwear...!
Mesquite: Sometimes I touch your underwear...
Dub: Gross.
Mesquite: You do what you gotta do, and you just don't tell anyone.

Racing Sophie

 Meet Aaron.

He's my brother.

He invited us to spend Conference at his house, which also meant participating in his special conference tradition:

Racing SOPHIE around the house

between the sessions.

Meet Sophie.

She's FAST!

 There weren't many rules;

the runners even got a head start.

 Sophie was held back until the first runner made it to the corner of the house.

 GO!!

 The chickens were confused.

 The runners were FAST!

 Sophie's friend and neighbor?

Not so much.

 In the end?

Sophie won.

EVERY.TIME.

 We LOVE traditions!

Especially at conference time.