I shaved my head when I was nineteen and out of the country for the first time. It was a sign of rebirth and a new direction in life. Plus it was awesome to take care of while backpacking on Eurorail and staying in hostels with communal bathrooms. And since I weighed fifty (FIFTY!!) pounds fewer then, a slick Italian near the Spanish Steps in Rome told me I looked like Demi Moore. This was just after G.I. Jane, so there actually was (a completely temporary) resemblance.

I have no delusions that I’ll look like Demi Moore by cutting my hair short like hers was in Ghost (remember those FIFTY pounds?), but I cannot stand to spend one more minute of my life drying my hair, brushing my hair, putting it up in a clip or ponytail, brushing it out of my eyes, or tucking it behind my ear. Maybe it’s that I’m now responsible for the VERY BASIC care of three heads of super-fine, easily messed-up hair resting on the heads of girls who, when I say “stand still,” they hear “pretend your knees are rubber bands and try to touch every single molecule of air in this bathroom in the next 30 seconds.”

I’ve cut Dick’s hair for ten years now, and I cut Sally’s, Susan’s, and Spot’s on a regular basis, often taking off “just a little more” during breakfast. There’s something so satisfying about cutting hair. If you don’t get a thrill from popping zits (your own or others’), you probably won’t understand when I say that it’s one of the greatest feelings on earth, not unlike, uh, cuddling with one’s spouse of many years. It’s incredibly stress-relieving, let’s say.

Dick just came home, smiled big, and told me I look really, really “cute.” Boy does that boy know where his bread is buttered (though he might have gotten jam on that bread if he’d said “outrageously sophisticated and gorgeous” . . .  I’m just sayin’, Dick, for next time.)

Jane

Comment of the day from Natalie:

I had REALLY long hair when I had my son 3 years ago. Then he pooped in it. (Long story short: IT WAS NASTY) So I cut mine off short and loved it! Of course I have had short hair before so I knew it would be ok. Now I am in the process of growing it out and it is a pain. Do you think I could wear a bag on my head for the next year and get away with it?

A couple days ago, my only friend who lives near enough to swap babysitting with moved. We’d like to move too, but haven’t found the right house to buy.

I’ve lived in at least 23 different places, and I confess sometimes I ignore my neighbors, because, well, they probably won’t be my neighbors for long. Other times, though, friends are just there, ready to mock you when you fall off the treadmill or to bring chili when you’re afraid you’ll miscarry.

Blogging, for better or worse, fills a lot of that friendship need (except the babysitting). I joined the BlogHer Adnetwork because June said she’d gotten new readers through the headline circle thingie. I’ve gotten new readers, and new blogs to read, and, most important, new friends who sometimes I wonder if we were separated at birth, as Tara and I were.

Blogging’s also about writing, and I wonder how many bloggers hope to write something different or something more some day. Blogging’s great for developing writing habits and getting instant feedback, but is it the only thing you want to write?

I’m not exactly sure where BlogHer fits in there. Is it friendship or writing, or both? And how serious do you have to be about blogging to actually go to a conference about it? How serious about making friends and writing do you have to be to join a party about a conference that you’re not attending? I’m not sure, but I do know that whenever I meet someone (in real life or online) who speaks to me, I’m compensated, a million times over, for the worlds not conquered and the kids still whining.

Which is why I’m excited to join Pensieve’s BlogHop ‘08. If we were getting together for real, I’d make these Molten Lava Cakes for you:

If you seemed approachable and chummy, I’d mention my weekly Things That Must Go post, and encourage you to go share your Things That Must Go because this weekend I’m giving away an LLBean Tote Bag. And if you were really sympatico, I’d probably confide that I recently wrote my first fiction post, called WonderWoman Meets Her Match.

And before the evening was well over, I’d be anxious to get home so I could check out your blog and see for myself, in pixels and in words, who you really are.

Here’s my story of shame and degradation, humiliation and redemption:

I was born to a 19 year-old mother and a 25 year-old father who had near-identical backgrounds: same race, same religion, same political party, many siblings (5 and 9) and parents who are, 52 and 63 years later, still married. (My parents are still married 32 years later).

Mom graduated high school early to get married and attended university until I came along. Dad started medical school, joined the Navy and served six months in Okinawa, where he read his scriptures at night, wrote home every week, and sent us home videos of himself and the island. My little sister was scared of him when he first came home, but that passed.

I skipped third grade because the other kids hadn’t been read to compulsively as children. And my teacher was a serious under-achiever. I repeated fifth grade when we moved to Oregon where the hippies read compulsively to their children between teaching them to weave sweaters and make tabbouleh salad.

I ended up with two brothers and two sisters. Mom likes my brother better than me, but I don’t blame her for that. He is much easier to like. I got my ears pierced at 8 and couldn’t wear makeup until I was 14, by which time I’d pretty much lost interest, which is while I won’t be linking up to the Fight the Frump carnival anytime soon. Embrace the Frump, I always say.

My dad had a stressful job, back when they made residents and interns work 45 days straight. He was a harsh disciplinarian sometimes. I think my husband (who is a complete softie) doesn’t blame him for that. He still protests (unsuccessfully) when I swear in front of the kids. (I always feel bad afterwards, just like my dad felt bad twenty years ago). We (my dad and mom and I) went to family therapy and moved to a bigger town with more doctors. Now that Dad is a Grandpa, the mellowing process is near-complete.

I went to college and rebelled: stayed up late, got addicted to Mountain Dew, played pool in dingy pool halls (Trouble with a capital T, that rhymes with P, and that stands for Pool.), went to a dance club or three. Dad asked me once, after I’d been up all night and imbibed three 2-liter bottles of Mountain Dew, then drove the 30 minutes home to use their computer to finish a paper, if I was on speed. I was not. I got a C+ that semester and generally under-achieved for awhile.

I met Dick, who is sometimes a geek and too addicted to his computer and basketball; he also has a toe fungus and a strange bump under his right sideburn. He is a much better husband and lover and father and friend than I ever imagined, if I had been imagining getting married. We have the same goals, same religion, similar political sensibilities. Enough compatibility to be comfortable and enough conflict to not get bored.

I had a baby. I got so tired that I thought, as I lay awake at night listening to her scream in the next room, that if she had been adopted, I would have taken her back. Would have said, Sorry, changed my mind. We recovered enough a few years later to try again. I had a miscarriage and that was stinky. Got pregnant the next month and had another girl. Another one came two years after that.

Other things happened, but frankly, I’m falling asleep here just writing this, my agent wants me to save the juicy stuff for when she’s clinched the book deal. Maybe I could sue my parents for not providing me enough angst in my formative years. I mean, it felt really angsty at the time, especially from 1989 to 1992 and 1996 to 1998, but some people might think it was, overall, well, a tad unexciting.

Etiquette like that is really important to me — not like that awful writing the formal thank-you notes and rsvp’ing by a certain stressful deadline. Who can take that kind of pressure?

I blog here about the same things as most mommabloggers: naturally, I have a unique perspective and a witty way with words. Really, I blog because otherwise I’d spend ALL my free time locked in the bathroom reading trashy novels cleaning house, and that’s no way to live.

I plan to keep my three girls (Sally 7, Susan 3 1/2, and Spot 18 mo) around because, hey, they give me stuff to write about. And my husband (Dick) is the reason, the reason I get up in the morning (he never turns off his alarm) and the reason I go to bed at night (he nags until I turn out the light).

I thought I’d introduce myself by telling you what I’ve learned in some of the places I’ve been. I’d love to hear what you know and where you come from.

Where I’ve Been

Fort Worth — Chiggers, while high in protein, are not a good baby food.

Fallbrook — A deep (4 ft) hole at the beach feels like the center of the earth.

Twentynine Palms — Hell is a marine town in the desert with a disinterested 3rd grade teacher. Heaven is building intricate irrigation works in the sand with neighborhood kids.

Corvallis — It’s really gloomy (and green, yeah, yeah) when the sun doesn’t come out. Ever.

Salina — Some girls are mean. Really mean. Other girls make being friends the best thing ever. Even if they do end up marrying your 5th grade boyfriend.

Woodland Hills — A small town, made up of people who have moved there on purpose, can be a great place to grow up.

Provo — College really is the best years of your life. Until you get married and that’s the best.

Hon-Atsugi — If you find 100 yen (about a dollar) in a park, you turn it in to the police. And you don’t let your husband go out at night with colleagues.

Harlem — As long as your neighbors know that you’re even poorer than they are, they’ll leave you alone. Until you get pregnant, and then they’ll be really friendly.

The Bronx — To enter the best, best (and worst most challenging) years of your life, start having babies.

Cairo — Everyone should get to have a maid and to be a maid at some point in their life. Surprisingly, it is almost as weird to have one as to be one.

St. Petersburg — “Wet” heat really is worse than dry heat, but it’s a lot easier on your skin.

The West — Someday the grass will be greener right. where. we. are. Someday.

—

Now tell me all about you. Please? Also, check out the list of prizes for the UBP. My good friend Shalece and I are offering one of her unique Fortune Cookie Kits as prize #102. She did all the work, and I’m doing some advertising. If I were remotely entrepreneurally talented, I’d offer something of my own.

As it is, the Fortune Cookie Kit is a great prize; personalized fortune cookies are awesome, and making them is fun, something you can do with the kids (except the folding-the-extremely-hot-cookie part at the end. Turn on Little Einsteins during that part). Okay. Go. Party! Comment.

But I digress (and not very sensitively, either). Apparently I have loose ligaments. Those dang ligaments. You can ignore them for years (19) and take them for granted, and then, suddenly, when you’re playing tennis, snap, or, (imagine some sickening thwack-y, sticky scrunch sound) and they turn on you, letting your humerus bone (which should be connected to your thigh bone) slide out, just this far, from the shoulder socket. And you have to yank on it and twist it to and fro and it goes back in.

This happens every six months for a while. You have surgery. Your husband and your sister both see you in a state of semi-undress after the surgery and you realize that, of the three of you, you are the only one who could be naked in the room without it being really awkward. But it is kind of awkward anyway, or would be if you weren’t on those really nice painkillers. Nice painkillers, so-so surgery.

Time passes. You get used to only doing the side-stroke (left side) when swimming. You teach your best friend and your husband how to help get your arm back in. You’re cautious when you push the kids on the swing. You don’t play tennis or reach for things or sleep with your hand tucked beneath your head any more. You scream at friends who twirl your kids around like normal people, afraid they’ve inherited your ligaments.

Your arm goes out on September 11, 2001 while you’re doing your physical therapy and you feel really sorry for yourself until you get to work at in upper Manhattan and look at the TV.

You think, could be worse. Could be a WHOLE HECK of a lot worse. At the YMCA I (this is about me) see a person with no legs getting ready to use the weight machines.

Still, even if it’s not a traumatic injury (not caused by trauma but by faulty parts), it is limiting, restrictive, painful. It makes me feel like I’m not quite right. And it hurts.

During pregnancy it’s worse. Everything’s loosening and softening for that baby. But even pregnancy comes to an end and things go back to normal. Until one day, in one ten-day stretch, it comes out four times.

And it’s not the pain or the inconvenience or the fear that it’ll come out when I’m holding the baby so I drop her on her head on the cement or when I’m driving so I roll the minivan and everyone dies. It’s that I can’t play ping-pong, the only sport where I have a chance of kicking Dick’s behind. And maybe a little about those fears.

So I’m having surgery. Again. Everything’s advanced, medically speaking, light-years ahead of where it was ten years ago. I said I would like a replacement fake shoulder, but we’re gonna try this poke and stitch and tighten thing first. I’ve often thought to myself that I’m glad to just have an arm, even if it is defective. It doesn’t look defective. I look normal. It’s only on the inside that things aren’t right.

I almost felt stupid asking about the surgery. Sitting in the doctor’s office with people using canes and walkers and wheelchairs. The doctor said Of course we should do it. You’re only, what, 30? And you can’t raise your arm up? I blush. It’s amazing what you can get used to. And it could be a lot worse.

1. People who run a few miles before the race to warm up show off.

2. People who run a few miles after the race to get a ‘real’ workout.

3. Overly cheerful people. Why are you so happy? You’re back here running with me. Now you’re a bit behind. Hmmm, if I stay just a smidge ahead of you, I can’t hear you. Ok, keep it up, just a little louder. Louder.

4. Old people with hand tremors who are much faster than me. Old people who are ahead of me. Walking.

5. Overly cheerful people who patronize old people wearing Pike’s Peak Marathon (“America’s Ultimate Challenge”) t-shirts.

6. People who spit when I’m right behind them.

7. Size 2 people wearing itty-bitty shorts and tanks in 29 degree weather (“ooh, look at me, my body is an energy-efficient running machine”).

8. Getting my second wind halfway through mile 1 and realizing I’m gonna need a lot of second winds.

9. My awesomely sculpted legs . . . wait, what? is that . . . could that be cellulite and stretchmarks? Still?

10. My knees, oh my knees. Dad assured me at twelve that big thigh muscles boded well for strong knees. Thanks, Dad; I’d rather have tiny thighs and aching knees rather than large thighs and aching knees.

I could have summarized most of those as all the other people, but that might point to some deep-seated (but well-hidden) jealousy and misanthropy on my part.

10 things I love about running 10Ks

1. Really. Why else would I run 6.2 miles on an otherwise-nice Saturday morning?

2. Beating my goal time (75 minutes) by 8 minutes and 9 seconds. Life lesson: set ‘realistic’ goals, or just have really low expecations.

3. Hare-man. He speeds past me and then stops to walk. I pass him. Twice. Thrice. Frice? Slow and steady, baby.

4. One mile to go. I am awesome. I rock. I’m the best. I’m number 1. Number 1 thousand fifty-six, that is.

5. Exercise that doesn’t involve cute, coordinated arm movements.

6. Free food at the end, even if it’s all really healthy crap. C’mon, don’t we deserve a donut or three?

7. Cute guy telling me good job. He would never guess I’m the mother of three, right?

8. It’s like giving birth. Once you start, you can’t stop until it’s over.

9. Cool, LOUD running songs like Shake It by Metro Station.

10. It’s a lot shorter than a marathon. A lot.

I guess there should be something on this list too about all the other people. Without them, quitting in the middle would seem a lot less shameful. Oh, and Utah is beautiful to run in. Even in the winter (maybe especially in the winter because the lake is too frozen to stink). But those mountains, blue and white, some in shadow, some not, they hurt me. Hurt me good. Kinda like running.

Today she’s having a Wii (that’s dubya I I, right?) giveaway, and she only had two million entrants at one hour to closing, so naturally I felt bad for her and entered. As we (all two million and one of us) described in the comments section, here’s my most embarrassing moment that is relatively fit for public consumption:

When I was thirteen I went to math camp at the University of Utah.

I learned about the Fibonacci sequence, played my final piano recital (after that I gave it up as a dead-end talent-wise), switched from Pepsi to Coke (a new vending machine contract was negotiated mid-week), and snuck out with friends to swim in the fountains on campus.

Check a few off the old life to-do list.

Boys weren’t allowed in our dorm rooms, so we only snuck them in once, or maybe twice.

One morning my roommate (Andrea — don’t worry, I didn’t put her name in on the other blog; wanted to preserve her anonymity, you know) snuck some in while I was in the shower. It was really early, like 9:40 or something, so he lay down on her bed to snooze while the others left for breakfast.

I came back from the shower and dropped my towel, turned around, and . . . jumped in the closet.

Luckily it was the short sidekick boy rather than the tall hot one (Lincoln — didn’t list him by name either, same reason) who (years) later asked me out on my first date.

If only I’d known then what I know now — I had one fine body at 13!!

My favorite story was from a man named Aaron. I wish I could link to him and give him credit, but he didn’t leave a link. Maybe he doesn’t even have a blog of his own. Weird. Well, it’s on the internet, so that’s fair use, right? I’ll paraphrase a bit just to make sure (so if it sounds kinda choppy, don’t get mad at Aaron):

When I was young my mom would never buy me underwear with characters on it…only [tighty whities]. So, when a friend came over to spend the weekend . . . I . . . stole a few pairs of Snoopy underwear. And wore them for a few happy weeks.

Until my mom walked by me one day while I was wearing shorts and had my feet propped up on the coffee table. She saw my colorful underwear and knew it hadn’t come from her.

I had to knock on my friend’s door, tell his mom what I had done, and hand her a brown lunch sack with her son’s stolen underpants in it.

What a great mom to teach honesty like that.

And I ask myself, why don’t I do anything with my life? After even just an hour of quiet, I have forgotten how time- and energy- consuming the three hooligans are. It’s frustrating, because I don’t know how much of my continued sklunklishness is due to the fact that I had to listen to high-pitched whining for ten hours today, and how much is just evidence of the good doctor’s wisdom when he said, “when you’re in a slump, you’re not in for much fun. Un-slumping yourself is not easily done.”

I should probably read one of those motherhood-motivational books that I see advertised in the pseudo-church press circulars. But, barf.

Or I should woman-up and get me some discipline. Nah — using all my discipline to stick to a mere five brownies tonight.

Here’s some irony. I have this great idea for a motherhood book of my own. The basic concept is that it would be a mother book by an actual stay-at-home mother, not a stay-at-home mother with an impressive journalistic career temporarily on hold while she freelances in between diaper changes (although someone like that would probably be pretty inspiring).

Because, and this is my original idea, mothering and writing about mothering is kind of like the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle: the more you step away from it (mothering) by getting book contracts and ignoring (blissfully, I imagine) your kids to research the book (by reading similar books, naturally), write the book, and promote the book, the less experience you have of actually being JUST a mother.

Or, to be more analogic — the closer you look, the harder it is to know what exactly a mother is, because instead of being, you’re seeing.

Some women have the energy and intelligence to be a mother and a lawyer, painter, doctor, plumber. And others got married even younger than the average age for Mormon girls and have spent 90 percent of their adults lives as . . . mothers.

The ironic thing is that, after having this great idea, and getting hyped about it with my kindred (mom) spirit Tara, we’ve (I’ve — it was my idea after all) done exactly nothing about it. Oh, except, she’s about to have her third kid, and I moved across the country with my family and established a new household and supported my husband through a couple of (very rewarding) job changes. And today I took Sally and Susan to dance class.

At the risk (too late) of making this a very long post, here’s what’s motivating me (or trying to) out of my slump:

Four takes on What Is A Mother?:

Watts: It’s 1987 Ray. Did you know a woman can be anything she wants to be?

Ray: I know; my mom’s a plumber. And I have an enormous amount of respect for her.

Watts: That explains a lot about you Ray.

Some Kind of Wonderful

Am not inspired to become a plumber. Movie as a whole makes you want to go out and marry your best friend. Oh wait. We can check that off the To-Do list. Check.

I love being in my mother’s kitchen. It is always warm and steamy and filled with activity. In my mind, I have a kitchen like this. The cabinets are filled with dishes that actually get used. The pots sit out on the stove, waiting for the day’s sauces and soups and stew. The cookbook on the counter is dog-eared and splattered with grease and gravy and icing smudges.

…

Sometimes, I wanted to marry Morelli so I’d have a kitchen like my mom’s. Then, other times, I worried that I couldn’t pull it off, and I’d have a husband and three kids, and we’d all be eating take-out standing over the sink. I guess there are worse things in the world than take-out, but in my mother’s kitchen, take-out feels a little like failure.

Lean Mean Thirteen, p. 262

I wish I could recommend Janet Evanovich’s books to my mom and sister, but they wouldn’t like the bad language and sketchy relationship entanglements. And I could use a little less formula and a little more emotional /intellectual growth on the part of the heroine. But, dang. She’s a fantastic storyteller. Makes you want to learn how to shoot a gun, or not. I actually prefer my own kitchen to my mom’s; only because I know where everything is in my cupboards.

Although she volunteered, served on various committees, or stuck her oar in countless organizations, she’d never worked outside the home. He’d gone through a period in his late teens and early twenties where he’d imagined her (pitied her) as an unfulfilled, semidesperate housewife.

… [after he'd taken her aside to encourage her to break out of this repression]

“I get to use this house as my studio, my science project, my laboratory and my showroom. I get to be the director, the designer, the set builder, and the star of the whole show. Now, why would I want to go out and get a job or a career — since we don’t need the money — and have somebody else tell me what to do and when to do it?”

She’d crooked her finger so he leaned down to her. And she’d laid a hand on his cheek. “You’re such a sweetheart, Caleb. You’re going to find out that not everybody wants what society — in whatever its current mood or mode might be — tells them they should want. I consider myself lucky, even privileged, that I was able to make the choice to stay home and raise my children. And I’m lucky to be able to be married to a man who doesn’t mind if I use my talents . . . I’m happy. And I love knowing that you worried I might not be.

Blood Brothers, p. 141

I’ve liked Nora Roberts for a long time. Double plus on the not being able to recommend due to language and sexual situations. Too bad. And double double plus on being very formulaic, which is good and bad. It’s like going to Olive Garden or Outback to eat. Might not be exciting and new (at least after the first few times), but reliable and satisfying. And I love how she describes this woman’s outlook. I’m kind of conflicted — wanting different things moment to moment. Tara says mothering is great–like the ups and downs of PMS, only multiplied. (no pun there).

Dear Baby, I hope someday somebody wants to hold you for 20 minutes straight and that’s all they do. They don’t pull away. They don’t look at your face. They don’t try to kiss you. All they do is wrap you up in their arms without an ounce of selfishness in it.

Waitress, Jenna writing in journal while pregnant

I’m seeing a definite pattern here. All considerations of talent and temperament aside (they aren’t that important, right?), perhaps part of my writer’s block is due to the fact that what I like to read and, often, watch, contains thematic elements I can’t recommend to my nearest and dearest. hmmmm.

Dick and I really liked Waitress. It’s got adultery in it, which is usually a big turn-off for me, but it was very realistic and understandable, and most importantly, not glamorized/rewarded. More depressing were the two very unadmirable main male characters. I don’t think I see the male of the species through a rosy haze, but this was pretty brutal.

But at least Jenna isn’t some angelically boring earth-mother-pregnancy–is-glorious type. When she invents a pie in honor of the baby-to-be, she calls it “Pregnant Miserable Self-Pitying Loser Pie… Lumpy oatmeal with fruitcake mashed in. Flambé of course.” It’s probably pretty unrealistic that her whole life changes the second her baby is placed in her arms, but it’s a nice fairytale. I am mother: I have purpose.

Further conscientiousness led to Spot and Susan getting their second-dose flu shots, and to Sally, still suffering from her sudden needle paranoia, getting the inhalant version. I told her I’d take the cost difference out of her Christmas present allotment. And brave Mama got a flu shot too; my shoulder hurt for two days straight. Maybe Sally is smarter than she looks? I also had a fever, aches, and a sore throat that got worse and worse.

Soon (after four agonizing days) each swallow had to be preceded by ten minutes of mental preparation. How much saliva can you let pool on the back of your tongue before you just have to swallow? (not much, it turns out). Unlike fever and aches, a sore throat is not a common reaction to the shot version of the flu vaccine.

The internet also informed me that the fewer cold-like symptoms you have accompanying your sore throat, the more likely you are to actually have strep, and that strep should be treated with antibiotics, not because you’ll get better sooner, but so that your infectious period will be cut way down (right. who cares about that?) and also so you won’t die of rheumatic fever.

I don’t know how the show House remains popular when most illnesses can be self-diagnosed on webmd.com. And self-medication can be obtained at any online Canadian pharmacy. But I took myself off to the Intermountain Mega Clinic down the road. It’s beautiful, new, and staffed by smart doctors and cotton swab-wielding MA’s who trained for years to gag you and confirm in seconds the conclusion you came to after much soul-searching, desire to downplay wimp-like wimpering, and hours of computer research.

Dr. Welby asked if I’d been around anyone with strep, and, looking at disgustingly-healthy Susan and Spot, I realized I’d probably made a mistake at the pediatrician’s office on Monday. Apparently your mom’s advice to not take candy from strangers extends to little kids with lollipops. Maybe I should hire a nanny just for the doctor runs.

The worst thing about being sick is that you can’t abuse your body by staying up late and guzzling sugar-drenched soda. Not that I do that on a regular basis. Sickness, like age, reminds you that your body would really prefer a darkened room at 9:00 pm and lots of liquidy water.

The best thing about being sick is getting to moan on the couch with a book (I can do this anytime, but the guilt is less when I’m sick) while Dick pampers me a little. Which means that he gets the kids dinner (mama-leftovers from last week) and puts them to bed with me needing to nag a mere three times instead of the usual seventeen hundred.

But like any good martyr-mother, I’m happy to be sick instead of my kids. After all, they can be comatose zombies watch movies just as easily whether they’re sick or I’m sick, but my free ticket for couch-moaning and reading requires a few aches and pains on my part. Although I think Dick is going to start requiring a doctor’s note.

After I went to Europe I had another prepared food to sneer at: yogurt, or what goes by the name of yogurt in most American grocery stores. Could there be any yuckier, low- or non-fat, too sweet awfulness?

(Now obviously, if I had the budget to buy gourmet brands, I’m sure the wonders of the American supermarket would be more appealing. But I digress.)

I’ve learned to make bread and tortillas (flour not corn), and noodles, and freezer jam. I haven’t found a noodle recipe that’s worth the effort, but the others are. In Cairo I made spaghetti sauce from actual tomatoes and cottage cheese from actual milk. And since my favorite restaurant right now is Bombay House, I make a mean saag shorba.

We’ve been staying with (“staying” sounds better than “living;” I think it sounds slightly less moocher-like) Marcy now for a couple months, and it’s been good for my culinary pretensions. Marcy’s a good audience; Dick likes and eats anything I make (he better!), which unfortunately means I don’t always know if something is really good or if he is just really hungry. Marcy is more critical (in a good way), and she appreciates, better than a man (besides all those Emeril-wannabes) how much work goes into a meal.

Marcy’s kids have to drink special milk and have butter slathered on every piece of toast because they’re weight-ally challenged. We don’t have that problem in our family, but I was happy to figure out how to make high-fat yogurt, with, incidentally, less sugar.

Jane’s Yogurt

Ingredients

1 quart milk (skim-whole; some people actually use water and powdered milk–what’s the point? Whole tastes best, obviously)

1/4-1/2 cup sugar (1/4 cup for plain yogurt to be used in savory dishes; 1/2 for just-right eating yogurt)

1/2-1 cup heavy whipping cream (I figure if you’re going to the trouble of making something, you might as well make it super-yummy, but, you can leave this out altogether without endangering anything).

1/4 cup plain yogurt or yogurt starter (can be purchased in healthfood store, I assume; we just use regular plain yogurt)

flavorings, as desired

Directions

Bring milk almost to a boil (one website said 185 degrees; I think boiling is like 212, but I don’t have a thermometer and don’t really care to get one at this point, so “almost to a boil” works for me) and then take off heat. Stir in sugar and cream. Allow to cool to almost room temperature (this takes about an hour or so. The same website said 110 degrees here, but I just stick my finger in periodically ’til it’s the same “warm” as the water I use to proof yeast). Stir in plain yogurt and pour into two mason jars (a 1 qt and a 1 pt jar work perfectly) and seal with some of those cool white plastic mason jar lids they sell now (how great is it too throw out all those rusty metal ones? You can store it in any glass container, and plastic might work too). Incubate overnight in an oven with the oven light on (just like you would sourdough starter). Add any pureed fruit or vanilla extract or other flavorings; I think it’s pretty perfect just as it is, even before it’s been chilled. Keep refrigerated.

One of the biggest perks of staying with my sister is that we get cable, which means that I get House. Marcy gets The Office, Dick and Adam get Heroes, and the kids get Spongebob. It’s only a matter of time, I think, before Spongebob is connected with bizzare behavior of some sort or another; perhaps not violent criminalism, but possibly even scarier for being completely absurd.

There’s a Mormon character on House right now, a youngish black man competing for a fellowship spot on House’s diagnostic team. Last Tuesday, House goaded the Mormon character (he has a number, but I can’t remember what it is) into drinking tequila as part of a pseudo-diagnostic test that might save the life of a patient. House’s compelling argument was the “Would you pull an ass out of a pit on the Sabbath?” rationale.

The dialogue was well-written and fast-paced, though one mistake made it clear that no actual Mormons were consulted (use of “LDS” for “Mormonism”; just as you wouldn’t say “Catholic” when you meant “Catholicism”). Race relations, “magic underwear,” and the Word of Wisdom were all addressed in under two minutes. And in my humble opinion, Dr. House shared my disappointment that his argument, reasonable as it may be, so easily swayed the Mormon into a medical drinking contest. As House said, rational arguments don’t usually work on religious people, otherwise there wouldn’t be any.

I love House. He’s an athiest and a misanthropist. And he’s witty. One might even compare his tongue to a wasp’s stinger. When I was in high school and had a crush on Chris Hansen in AP Chem, my friends and I had a habit of assigning code names to our crushes. Levi, who eventually turned out to be not even a possibility was Apollo the sungod, and Chris, thanks to our reading of The Scarlet Letter, was Roger Chillingworth. And I was in love.

Irrational, then, that I married a most mild-tongued man. But I still have room for a major crush on awful, sarcastic, incredibly intelligent, Sherlock Holmes-wannabe Gregory House.

Now I am back on the wagon, and ready to share all the epiphanies I had. Speaking of epiphanies, has anyone been following the fascinating stuff about Mother Teresa’s faithful uncertainties? What I’ve read/heard so far is extremely intriguing. I don’t think it diminishes her at all to know that she wondered if God exists. That she lived so exemplarily while wondering is even better.

The first thing I realized in my own little self, after I drank four Mountain Dews in one day, the first, unchilled, begun in the parking lot of Wal-Mart, was that I didn’t like how it made me feel. I was strung out enough. And about 36 hours after the giddiness of that first ecstatic drink, it seemed profoundly mundane to open another. It was just another habit. Not special or exciting.

Made me think of affairs. Now, I can’t even imagine having to date again if something were to happen to my husband. I can’t imagine sharing the absurd intimacy and physical and emotional vulnerability of sex with anyone other than the only person I have shared that with in its entirety. But, I wondered if people who have lots of affairs experience this same awful apathy after embarking on each one. If so, how odd that one would continue. And if one did not continue because the fun wears off so quickly, how terrible to have broken vows over a day’s worth of pleasure.

I’ve now been caffeine-free again for about a week, and the headaches were much sharper for a couple days this time of weaning. An appropriate punishment, probably. Basically, and I’m sure anyone with an addictive personality or any sort of addiction will know this already, once you’ve been hooked, it’s much easier to get hooked again, and it’s as if all the good work of being not hooked has been erased. This time, I mean it: no more caffeine.

One forbidden fruit for me that only starts to dull after about a week of pretty steady consumption, and then only to slightly pale, is reading trashy novels. And then I think it only starts to not be exciting because the guilt over ignoring my kids, house, husband, etc, etc, starts to break through the glorious somnolent haze.

If only I could get addicted to some Mother Teresa-type activities.

Dick: Do you want to hold a garage sale this Saturday to try to sell our furniture that way?

Jane: we’d get even less that way, that is if we could get people even to come to our neighborhood to buy stuff. you mean so we could do the shipping method after all? what?

Dick: Look at the timestamp of my original message – I sent this before we decided to cancel the auto-shipping.

Jane: oh, sorry

Dick: You’re impossible.

Jane: well, unfortunately, none of “moving,” “new job,” “relocating to boondocks, usa,” or “possibly foreclosing on our nice little house in the crime-infested ghetto of south saint pete” begins with A, so they’re not covered by Dr. Laura’s 3 A’s that justify divorce. So I guess you’re stuck with me.

Actually, considering the stress level, we’re pretty ding-dang (to steal a phrase from June Cutoff-Cash) civil. I don’t trust those smiley faces though: they can cover a multitude of covert nasty feelings.

Ding-dang (what would be the form of this for a regular expletive rather than an adjective?), I feel so much better now. Cheerful, almost. Could be the second Mountain Dew I am drinking (this one chilled) or the three Ibuprofens I guzzled with a gallon of water. Or maybe it is just the restorative properties of blogging.

Makes you want to not ever buy anything ever again. At least not non-consumable items. Instead, we should go for easily consumed or expended gifts. Like a pass to a favorite amusement park, say. I’m feeling like a really bad mother as I sort Sally’s games and activity books. Is it bad that I haven’t touched most of the “fun” stuff in her closet for the past two years? It sure was organized in there pretty well, I tell you.

In other news, not to belabor the point or make my addictions seem as heart-wrenching as other, more serious ones, but I have been craving the Mountain Dew like you wouldn’t believe. Honestly (and I try to be honest, you know), I don’t know when I have ever felt so stressed out in my entire life — there’s the whole house-not-sold-yet-and-soon-to-be-uninsured-because-vacant thing too. So, I find myself thinking of all these reasons (excuses/justifications) why it would be okay for me to drink some Mountain Dew. And I wonder if they are the same types of things other addicts think of in regards to their blue ruin.

• I just want a little bit
• It’s only for a couple weeks
• Just until my life gets back to normal
• I just need a little pick-me-up/comfort
• Who is it going to hurt, really?
• It’s not that bad
• If it makes me not kill the kids, really, isn’t this just the lesser of two evils?

And then I read this article. Really, it’s just about protecting my brain, after all.

Congratulations on reaching thirty years of age and joining the wisdom of the rest of us! I love sitting at the dinner table with you, reading your blog, raising kids together, sharing your bed, going to Busch Gardens together, watching movies together, going to the park together, and everything else we do. I love you. Make sure you keep your idealism and youth even as you move past your exploratory twenties into the next decade.

Dick

From GRAMPA:
Happy Birthday, beloved Jane. All grown up with charms running full blast. SuperMom with everything under control, yet with time to blog and even travel. How blessed am I that you include me in family events. Watching my offspring and their loved ones thrive is what life’s all about for this Grampa. Thanks and Happy Birthday, wonderful, lovely Jane.

Love
Dad

From GRANDMA MARIAN:
Makes-Me-Smile June: Happy Birthday Jane!

You have given a special meaning to the month of June with your birthday, and of course your wedding anniversary.

I’ve been thinking about Johnson family birthdays and weddings. July brings birthdays for Liz, Rachel, and Grandpa Dave. August brings birthdays for Sean and Sean, jr. September is a special Labor Day birthday (there about) for Dick.

October is a special month with birthdays for Susan and Spot, and the wedding anniversary of Liz and Sean. November and December have no Johnson family birthdays or weddings, but these months offer wonderful times of family celebration.

January brings a birthday for Sally, with my birthday following close by in February. Alas, March, April, and May have no Johnson family birthdays or weddings.

Now, we are back to MMSJ. Have a great June birthday, Jane, and have a great birthday year.

Love, Marian

From LIZ:
Ahhh… yah… the big THREE-OH!! Just yesterday you were so young, marrying my little brother, growing up, making a big life!! Now, here you are, life has happened, 30 has come, three little ones look up to you for guidance, and no amount of exercise will get your 20 year old body back. Sorry. The bills get bigger, so do the problems in life, but with all the crazy life issues you may face, you may just realize that time is just beginning, yes you have wonderful youthful reminders of the past, but too, there are miles ahead of silly laughter and smiling faces and birthday cake and crazy memories to be had again and again!!

Happy Birthday Jane!!

Love, Liz, Sean, Sean Jr, and Rachel

From SEAN:
Happy Birthday to my Sister-in-law.
Compared to most, you have no flaw.

Friends, family, and kids have a lot to learn.
You so lovingly share and teach.
We always have lots of fun with you –
At Busch Gardens , the zoo, and the beach.

You’re getting older –
And also getting wiser.
You’re very cool, even if
You’ve never drank Budweiser.

I’m not a writing pro,
But I wanted you to know –
That we’d hate to see you go.
Stay in FLA where there’s no snow.

I’m really glad you married Dick,
Or we wouldn’t be related.
I’m often a procrastinator, but
This Birthday wish isn’t belated.

Happy Birthday Jane !

Sincerely,
Sean

From MOM:
Jane was such a lively girl. When she was 3, I took her to the local library story time. Afterwards the librarian told me that Jane had a lot of energy and that I needed to find a way to channel that energy and until I did, she was not welcome back to story hour. When I went to her parent teacher conferences some of Jane’s teachers would tell me that Jane tried to take over the class. I learned early on if I wanted any of the kids to help me, I only had to engage or persuade Jane to the cause and she by her nature would corral the rest into the plan. In high school when Jane’s teachers would lament their struggles with her “abilities”, I would chuckle inside. Jane could have easily taught the classes herself and done a better job. She really was a threat to them. The climax to this story is that when Jane was in college one of her professors called her in and told her how threatened she felt by Jane. I think they became good friends. They just needed to understand each others place. Sorry Jane if I am off on some of the details.

Jane was given a lot of responsibility at a young age. She was not intimidated by any challenge. While in highschool she was Dick’s transcriptionist, jugling a heavy load of classes. She corraled her friends to studing for AP classes together. If Jane was involved the hard work was more fun.

Jane let your voice be heard you have such a power for persuasion and influence! I love you, mom

From DAD:
My favorite memories of Jane are when she and I got to spend many hours together, just the two of us, when she was 2-3 years old:

We lived in a small 2 bedroom wooden house on 5th Avenue in Fort Worth, Texas. Jane had graduated from a crib to a toddler bed that we constructed with the crib mattress set up on food storage boxes, just like the bed in the movie “The RM.” Danielle was going to evening classes at a nearby community college so that I could watch Jane when I got home from daytime medical school classes. So night after night it was my job (privilege!) to read to Jane and put her down for the night. She almost never was satisfied, but would get out of her bed repeatedly begging for more books. I was usually studying, though often I was “taking a break” from that to try a new candy or other dessert recipe — similar to the dessert making after the kids were in bed, as was mentioned on Jane’s blog. We fed Jane very healthily back then, with homemade baby food and other made-from-scratch-only stuff, but sometimes when Danielle wasn’t around Jane got to try my concoctions.

Jane was always very bright and talkative, like my sister Nancy and like Sally. I had begun teaching her to read the alphabet when she was 6 months old, by holding up alphabet blocks and saying them over and over to her, though I was never sure if that helped, or gave her any advantage over the more conventional ways of reading to her, and etc, later on. She did have her favorite books, and I would get bored reading them straight, so I would try changing things up, by reading every other word, or by repeating twice the last word in each sentence, or by reversing the last two words in each sentence. I like to think that she enjoyed this variety, since she would giggle some, but mostly she would hit me and demand that I would “read it right.” Maybe it was abusive teasing, scarring her for life.

About that time there was a top-40 song on the radio called “The Name Game” which I used to sing to Jane, calling her “Jane-bo-bannon.” It didn’t stick.

We bought a second hand bike seat for Jane, and put it on the back of a second hand bike for me, with Danielle on her own bike, and we took bike rides to the nearby parks. Fortunately Jane was not seriously hurt when I once spilled with her strapped in to the seat. I think that the government now deems these seats too dangerous — you don’t see them around much anymore.

Jane had beautiful below-shoulder-length hair, but then Danielle cut it so that it was “page-boy” style in my med-school graduation pictures near her 3rd birthday. She was the exact height that when Great-gradma Hyatt came with my mom and dad for graduation, Jane used gdma’s 4-legged cane as a pretend microphone, and entertained the five of us adults non-stop, singing and talking, like a one woman (toddler) show.

I really miss those days of one-on-one. Young parents, savor those moments!

Jane — Happy 30th Birthday! I pray you’ll always be bright, talkative (as in your blog) and loving, as you have been. I love you forever. Dad

From MARCY:
Jane, Brad and I were the 3 musketeers for quite a while—Karin came something like 7 years after Brad was born. We loved it. We played “Shipwrecked” (a pretending game we made up) over and over, tumbled in the basement, danced to “Classical Gas,” dressed up as royalty and sat in the throne-like pink chairs, and had some good scratch-em-up, hair-pulling fights. It was great.

I was in and out of piano lessons growing up and I distinctly remember telling my family one day that I hated practicing. Jane told me—without Mom hearing, I think—that I would never be any good anyway, so I should just quit—Jane was pretty good at playing, by the way. So I decided to show her I could do it! I practiced hard for—I don’t know, was it a couple days, a week, until I went back to my normal lax practicing? Later Jane informed me she had used “reverse psychology” on me. Wow. She was really smart to understand that concept and use it on me. I was really impressed by my older sis.

When we were in Young Women’s Jane refused to say the YW theme the way everyone else was saying it because she thought it should mean more to us than just a droning recital. She changed up the intonation and the emphasis—I think it drove the leaders crazy but I was proud of her for her individuality.

I often wish I could articulate my thoughts the way Jane does. She should have been on debate—why weren’t you on debate, Jane? Academically, I could never live up to Jane’s 5 AP classes in high school or her high ACT score, but when I found some talent in singing Jane encouraged me like no other. I felt like I was good because she believed in me and treated it like it was my special thing.

When Jane entered a pageant at age 17 it was a real shocker. She’d been known to refer to pageants as cattle auctions. Dad offered her $50 to do it—correct me if I’m wrong—and she got excited about doing things a little differently. I remember she was going to wear an old-fashioned swimsuit which even covered her legs, but she found out later there were regulations on swimwear. She stood up for changing the opening dance number costumes when they weren’t modest. Jane was also the only one who dressed up like a boy (Hamlet) and delivered a monologue (“To Be or Not to Be”) for her talent. She discovered that she liked the association with the other girls and enjoyed the workshops. She had a pretty traditional evening gown (a little on the plain side) up until a couple days before the pageant when she decided she wanted a Snow White dress. So Mom sewed her one and she wore a red bow in her hair and looked great. She came away with the prize for winning the Interview portion—surprise, surprise.

The night Jane got her engagement ring she came into my room (where I was sleeping), flipped on my light, jumped on my bed and woke me up to show me. I thought, “That’s the weirdest ring I’ve ever seen” and promptly went back to sleep, but I was pleased she wanted to show me so much. And now I think she was very smart to have designed a ring with an imbedded diamond—though she had always said she was going to have a pearl (none of this traditional diamond stuff).

So, she didn’t turn out as crazy as we all thought she was going to. We’re all glad she’s pretty mainstream now, but it’s still never dull when she’s around. It’s so fun having a supportive, interesting sister like her.

Love you, Jane!

Marcy

From HANNAH:
Jane!
We love you tons! Brad especially loves that southern humidity. He will be in Alabama until June 29, then there will be much rejoicing. So ever since the wedding I have straightened my hair less and less and tried to embrace the curls because of you. I still don’t like them though. I’ll keep working on it. Are you coming to Utah this summer? Let us know when, so that we can try to be here. Right now our plans are to leave for NY July 30.
We hope you have a great birthday. Give the girls kisses for us.

Love,
Hannah and Brad

From KARIN:
What can I say of my dearest Shoony? She’s been a powerful influence to me all of my life. I remember that when she came home from Europe with a shaved head, I told all of my friends that I was going to shave my head. Thank goodness for Mere’s stern “no”! Even now, Jane is one of my very favorite people to be with, because she’s always working to be more patient, a better mom, and learn and understand the world and Gospel. Besides all that, there’s never a dull moment with her! She’s always planning exciting adventures whether they be in the kitchen, at the beach, a theme park, or any random errand. Her cheerful personality makes her so much fun. I have long admired her frank honesty, especially her speeches about how she has “hundreds of thoughts running through her mind at once, and contrary to common belief, she’s only sharing one of them at a time.” I love how Jane’s always thinking and forming opinions, although I am quite nervous for her to read this, because I’m sure she’s thought thru how it could be written better. Oh well!!!!!!!!! I love you Jane! Thank you for your example of Integrity in staying home as a mom, and remembering who you are! You’ve been a pillar in my life. I can’t wait for you to come visit us!

From GRANDMA & GRANDPA BUTLER:
Here are a few of our memories of Jane:

Danielle was just 17, just out of high school, and Dick was a prospective medical student, with a dream of getting into medical school, but no acceptances, when they got married in 1976.

After Dick was accepted into an osteopathic medical school in Texas, they moved to Denton, far, far away from both their families. During their years of medical school, they bought a fully-furnished mobile home and lived in a trailer park. It bordered farm fields and they were able to till the land and plant a sizeable garden.

Danielle worked in a bank to support their family until she was 4 months pregnant, at which time they signed with the Navy and lived off their Navy stipend of $400 a month (same as Danielle’s salary from the bank). They were so poor they could barely make ends meet, but looked forward to having their first child, while worrying about how they could support a child.

Danielle learned how to stretch every dollar by making what they could not buy (including pecan pie made with beans) I sent her some maternity clothes, and she says she borrowed some from a six foot tall friend (Danielle is about five feet tall) to get her through her pregnancy.

When Jane, our first granddaughter, was born, I flew out to Denton to help Danielle with her first-born. Dick and Danielle became worried, when, after several days, Jane had not dirtied her diapers. They feared that her plumbing was blocked. One day, while Danielle was giving Jane a bath in the bathtub, Jane delivered a monster BM. While much relieved that their baby was OK, the new parents didn’t know how to clean her up. I told them to just wash the poop away down the drain of the tub, and draw new bath water (I had learned this trick when she and her siblings had gotten into messes).

Dick still had commitments to the Navy, including a stint in San Diego. They borrowed our motor home, and moved it to Ervan and Lavon’s lot in Escondido. Dick spent six weeks each summer at Balboa hospital. We were grateful that they had family members to help them make it through that leg of their difficult journey through medical training.

Finally, the day of Dick’s graduation from medical school dawned, and Dick and his dad picked out a large late-model navy blue Ford van to drive back home to California in. They thought Danielle would be much more comfortable because she was eight months pregnant with Marcy. Dick’s dad loaned them $5,000 to make the purchase until Dick got his first Navy bonus a couple weeks later.

They moved to Long Beach for Dick’s first pay-back assignment, where they lived in a little house. Dick rode his bike to the hospital and Marcy was born four weeks after Dick graduated from medical school.

Ten months later, they moved to Fallbrook, where they bought a house. Dick was stationed in Japan while Danielle and the two girls were in Fallbrook. We drove from our home in Camarillo to help Danielle put in a sprinkler system. We were living in Camarillo, and Danielle drove to see us several times. Jodi would entertain the little girls by painting their fingernails. The girls loved Jodi’s dogs, cats, horses, and goat. They liked to play in a fairly good-sized wood play house that I had bought from a garage sale. One day, Danielle phoned and asked if we could bring the play house to Fallbrook to help her keep her little girls entertained while Dick was away.

We borrowed Frank Young’s truck with a lift, and hoisted the house onto the truck, and took it down to the girls.

After Dick got back to Fallbrook, and the Hyatts moved to a new assignment with the Navy, Danielle said that they were able to sell their house because the lady wanted a playhouse for her kids, and the other houses didn’t have one.

Jane has true Celtic coloring like some of her forebears — white, lightly freckled skin, dark hair, hazel eyes. She grew up into a beautiful young lady.

Danielle capitalized on Jane’s Celtic coloring when she made Jane a “Snow White” costume for the “Miss Salem” contest.

In our view, Jane should have been named queen, but it was rumored that the contest had been dominated (rigged) for several years. We were not surprised that Jane won the interview round, since she had long demonstrated her Irish “gift of gab” and sharp wit.

Jane’s intelligence and good grades got her into BYU, where she majored in language arts. During her college years, Jane spent at least one season touring Europe.

When the internet came along, Jane an intriguing male “Y” journalism major met on-line. Following several exchanges, they decided it was time to meet in person by the old bell-tower.

They instantly recognized each other as fellow journalists. It was attraction at first sight.
Though they hit it off, Dick became skittish a few times. However, love prevailed, and they married after graduating together.

They spent a year after graduation teaching English in Japan. Then, they moved to Columbia
University in New York, where Dick was writing his biographical mission experiences for his master’s degree in journalism. They also lived in a black neighborhood and attended a black LDS ward. Sally was born in New York City. They were in New York City when terrorists hit the Twin Towers on 9/11.

When Dick graduated, he took a job teaching English at the American University in Cairo. The Johnsons flew to Cairo, Egypt, while their carefully selected, packed and labeled moving boxes were shipped to Cairo, Ilinois. They and their possessions met several months later. The family lived in a university-owned spacious apartment with a luscious backyard and became well-acquainted with diseases and inadequate medical systems that afflict that third world country. In Egypt, Dick, the ever-curious journalist, would climb to the roof tops of university buildings to watch anti-American demonstrations.

A good thing about living in Egypt was going on some unforgettable cruises to see the pyramids and other ancient sites. On one of these cruises, Dick, Danielle, Karin and Ryan joined them and went on to meet Brad in Romania.

After leaving Cairo, this adventure-loving family moved to Florida. Dick had no job prospects but they wanted to live by his parents, Disney World, other tourist attractions, beaches, and the warm winter climate. They rented in a good area, where they felt safe. Susan Lou joined their family.

They left their rented apartment on the second floor in a good area to buy a nice new house in a black area. They reckoned they could survive living in a black area, because they had lived in a black area in New York and attended a black ward, and had survived the plagues in Egypt.

However, they were shocked to learn that their nice new house was located in a drug- and crime-infested neighborhood. Just to make sure they would be safe, they erected a tall security fence and installed a security system. Amid all the racial tension, they had a third baby girl, and Dick became a counselor to the Branch President.

They soon discovered bullets in their baby’s room, and, later, their fence was mowed down by a neighbor in a dispute with her live-in boyfriend. A thief or thieves took advantage of the hole in the fence to burglarize their house of some of their treasures.

Did I mention that, since their marriage, Jane and Dick have lived adventurous lives?

They are trying to remain calm, and go on with their lives, while attempting to sell their house. So far, there have been few inquiries, and even fewer showings of their house.

We are proud of Jane and Dick and their three young girls for their courage in the face of difficulty. We look forward to seeing them when they come to Utah in a few weeks.

“Happy Thirtieth Birthday,” Jane!

Love,

Grandma and Grandpa Butler

From COUSIN AMY:
Happy Birthday Jane! What a special day! I have so much going on that my mind has little time to really ponder–but what comes to mind is the blessing it was to take summer vacations or stay all summer with a wonderful cousin and the joy it was. We could be away from each other for so long and then as soon as we rejoined we could stay up all night talking and laughing as if we were never apart. It would be fun to do that again. There are so many fun memories. I hope you have a fantastic birthday spent with your family and friends. Wishing you the best,
With love,
Amy

From COUSIN SUZIE:
Jane= Some Kind of Wonderful. i could almost just say that and enough would be said, and everyone would understand. But, I’ll add it’s significant meaning to me. I remember watching this movie at the Hyatt’s and Jane going on and on about “The Perfect Kiss” between Keith and Watts. She went into sooo many details as to why it was so perfect, and how each character MUST be feeling, and how dramatic it is. I remember thinking to myself (i was probably 9 or 10- so shannon was 12 or 13,maybe 14 or something like that) anyway, i remember thinking “How does she know all that? Has she kissed someone like THAT before?” I was in awe and amazement at the extreme knowledge of my older cousin. I KNEW she was smart. She always had the right answers for everything, so i figured she must have had first hand knowledge of THAT kind of love and passion 

Another fond childhood memory i have is when we had slumber parties in our grandparent’s trailer. The details aren’t very clear (maybe marcy remembers) but there was one particular time, thinking it was Fourth of July ’cause we had fireworks, that we stayed up almost all night long listening to shannon teach us “older” kids games and things to do. i thought she was so cool. obviously my sister amy, who isn’t that much younger than her, was helping in this education, but it was always shannon that was a bit more eccentric. we painted our nails all different colors, acted out scenes from movies, and sang crazy songs. good time good times.

It’s just been recently, since blogging of course, that i have been able to see that shannon hasn’t changed much since she was younger . she might not be extremely eccentric but she still is really smart, and willing to teach people new things- even when she isn’t trying to. as i read her blog i wonder how she has time to continue to learn so much everyday. i think she is amazing. she has the purest intent in life to do all that she can to do what SHE thinks is right. i think her opinions, some stronger than others, keep life interesting. she seems to be an incredible mother and wife. thank you shannon- for continually teaching me throughout my life. I love it. and while my husband might not like how addicted i’ve become to blogging, i’m glad that we have it to be able to see into each others lives. remember to always smile big because life is beautiful- Suzie

Marcy wrote: “Suzie, that’s great. I remember in the trailer that we acted out movie kisses–with our hands over our own mouths! Remember that?”

Suzie wrote back: “that’s what it was!! i was trying to remember exactly what about the movies we acted out and i just couldn’t think of it! you should add that part- it was hilarious!”

From MELINDA:
Dear Jane,

Happy 30th birthday! I know you have been dreading this one, but I have been 30 for a number of months now, and to be honest I never even think about it. I still feel young inside. I have been trying to decide about what to write for your birthday, and I decided to write some of the things that I like best about you. I like your flare for the dramatic. Don’t be offended by that one, it is a good thing, it makes life more exciting. What would high school have been like if it hadn’t been for your war with Rory, or your feud with Kris J? We certainly never would have been chased out of AP Calculus by a pack of boys who tried duck-taping us to a pole. Another great quality that you have is your courageousness. Not many people would be brave enough to run down the halls of high school pretending to ride a horse like Michael Keaton in Much Ado About Nothing. I think that might be the hardest I have ever laughed in my entire life. No wonder some people thought we were obnoxious. Another thing I like about you is your great sense of humor. How would we have survived high school if we couldn’t laugh at Mr. Burnham? I also really appreciate your passion for writing. What would I do now if I couldn’t read your blog everyday?

In the movie, It’s a Wonderful Life, George Bailey learns what the world would have been like without him. I can’t really answer that question for you, but I can say what my life would have been like if I had never known you. I might never have experienced the simple joy of Barry’s Malibu chicken sandwiches, fries, and Oreo shakes. I am pretty sure that I would never have owned a white beret with a gold tassel, or walked around in a bath robe down the halls of SFHS, or even taken AP History. I wonder how I would have spent my Friday nights, if we hadn’t all been reading books at Tracey’s house, or studying for our AP tests? I know we didn’t do that every weekend, but that we did that at all is a little embarrassing. I never would have gone on survival, which is one of my best memories from high school, if you hadn’t talked me into it. The list could go on and on, but in order to keep this letter at a reasonable length, I will conclude. I can definitely say that my life would have been a lot less colorful and a lot more boring if I had never known you, so thanks for being who you are and thanks for being my friend.

Melinda

From TRACEY:
For Jane’s 30th Birthday:

30 Memories I have Growing Up With Jane
By Tracey Jolley
Please note: many of these memories are from my perspective and may or may not reflect the actual “truth.” Also, I apologize to whomever these memories may embarrass!

1. Shoulder length hair and a perm when I first met her…very cute!
2. Being asked to show her around at church and thinking that I really could become friends with her
3. Really getting to know her on our hike to the hot pots for Young Women’s (plus there was a nude bather…who could beat that!)
4. Telling Gavin Wright to “go to hell” on the bus home from school
5. Right after getting my driver’s license, running over her garbage cans
6. Skipping Mr. Burnham’s history class and then later finding out he tried to lock us out of class that day!
7. Going to Macey’s for lunch and getting bagels and Raspberry Schweppes…then eating it in the lobby of the gym
8. Doubling (Tripling?…Melinda was there too!) on all of the school dances…remember the dance with Adam Green, Mike Taylor, and Clint Nelson?
9. Wearing our berets
10. Driving in the brown Wagoneer that my family sold her
11. Hiking the Uintah’s with the YW…hearing about the whole skinny dipping experience since I wasn’t really involved with that
12. Climbing a mountain and then naming it Kayzac, after the names of two boys we had crushes on
13. Constantly bringing up the story about how Jane’s stomach was so tough she could listen to her dad explain a c-section while eating spaghetti
14. Hiding the movie Dirty Dancing under a couch pillow because we thought our other friend would think it was “bad”
15. Taking Chemistry from Mr. Raine
16. Pretending we were characters in Star Trek: The Next Generation…I shall not reveal any more than that lest we all be embarassed!
17. Pretending we were characters in Star Wars…again no more details
18. Riding pretend horses…taken from the play Much Ado About Nothing, I think.
19. Seeing Merry Wives of Windsor at the Shakespearean Festival…making jokes about “love.”
20. Seeing Jane in New York when both of our families took a summer vacation there
21. Going to Taco Bell at 2:00 in the morning with those guys from our Y-Group
22. The infamous exploding pudding incident in our dorm room
23. Talking on the phone, somewhat awkwardly, while she was in Germany…deciding that it was really possible to be friends…remaining amazing friends since then
24. Running around BYU while juniors or seniors (I can’t remember which) but giggling about acting like freshman
25. Making a promise to have Thanksgiving Dinner together in 20 years…which will be coming up soon!
26. Being a bridesmaid at her wedding
27. Getting very creative pictures taken by Dick outside Jane’s parent’s house
28. Seeing Melinda off at the MTC
29. Staying with the Johnson’s in NYC right before my wedding
30. Getting together any time the Johnson’s are in town and playing games

From DANIELLE:
Hey Jane, I hope you have a wonderful 30th Birthday! You have been a great friend, conversationalist, blogger, and relief society teacher, and I have really learned a lot from you since meeting you 10 months ago. You have definitely taught me the importance and fun of blogging (even though mine is just about Liam), to be more relaxed as a mother, and how worth it being a stay at home mom is. I wasn’t a mother when I met you, so being a mom was a quick and new event to me, and you helped me adjust well and have been a great example. I really enjoy your friendship and am so glad that you were in this branch when we moved here! Please take me up on my offer to babysit the girls sometime so you and Dick can go out on a date! Every couple needs a night away, and Liam and I would love to entertain your girls for a night! Happy 30th Birthday again!! Oh, and you totally don’t even look thirty, you look more like 25! Feliz Cumplea–os! Danielle

From TARA:
Happy Birthday to Jane!
I may not have known you as long as these people, but I feel like I know you pretty well, and to know you is to love you! You are a very giving, loving person who is a magnificent mother, a wonderful wife, and a fantastic friend. You are always ready and willing to help out those around you, or to go out and have a little fun. You are a great listener, and can give both sympathy and solutions. Not to mention you seem to be able to work-out regularly, run your errands, read to your kids, blog constantly, and your house always manages to stay plenty clean. You are to be envied by all who know you – most of all me. I’m so grateful for the direction in my life that led Aaron & I out to Florida. I hate to say it was all to meet you and your family, but it often seems like it. Dude, I hope you have a rockin’ birthday! And know that many of us are thinking about you and we all love you.
Tara

How To Be a Good Gift-Giver

1. Know your recipient
2. Plan ahead
3. Include gift receipts
4. Good things come in (multiple) small packages
5. Select gifts that your recipient needs but won’t indulge in for herself
6. Presentation, Presentation, Presentation
7. Select items you would honestly love to receive

Two days before my birthday (my 30th, woe, woe), I got a box in the mail. I opened it and found six individually and differently wrapped gifts of odd shapes and sizes (numbers 2, 4, 6). The first thing I opened was something I recognized by weight and shape, and was, as I IM’d Tara minutes later, the sweetest thing anyone had ever sent me. It was two cans of caffeine-free Mountain Dew (number 1). (I’d take a picture of the actual cans, but, alas, they are already gone. Such is the fleeting nature of pleasure, I guess).

My next (and smallest) gift was some lip balm … ok, couldn’t continue until I went out to my car to retrieve it and applied another coat. mmmmm. Just as Tara stated in her review, it smells good, feels good, and looks good. Who could ask for anything more? (numbers 5, 7)

Then came a dvd of selected Food Network episodes. Now I remember her asking if there were any shows in particular I missed since we no longer have cable, but I was not suspicous at the time — probably because she followed number 2. There were also two new romance books by one of my favorite writers, Nora Roberts (love her alter ego J.D. Robbs too). Dilemma: I’ve already read these two books, and don’t need them for my permanent collection. Solution: number 3, which she also followed, comes in super-handy.

The final two gifts, which I just opened, where a pair of flip-flops (my favorite thing about Florida is never having to wear socks) and a T-shirt which … well, let me just say that I wish I knew my way around an iron-on transfer! A few notes: I love t-shirts (and short sleeves), green is my favorite color right now, and it fits perfectly. And it’s so personal and thoughtful. Man, I’m getting teary-eyed all over again.

I think the saying is “to know her is to love her,” but I feel well-loved from such evidence that I am well-known. Thanks, Tara! (I better get thinking about what to do in October; I’m pretty sure last year I sent — hmmmm — hope I sent something).

I should also give credit to my always-generous parents and in-laws, and to Marcy for asking if I needed a copy of Some Kind of Wonderful, and Dick for giving me a podcast and some dark chocolate for our anniversary. Dick’s podcast was great. He said he’d been planning a post similar to the one I wrote, so he had to make his audio to be different. I’ll post soon about how romantic it is to have an anniversary dinner with three hooligans, one of whom cannot be torn away from her potty.

About a month ago, I read the most fascinating article about weight in (where else?) the New York Times. It reports on some studies done by a Dr. Hirsch, who is convinced that genetics play a big role in how much we weigh. He did an intensive study of obese people, who lost 100 pounds on a 600 calorie diet, maintained that weight for a month on a more normal diet, and then were released. All of them immediately gained all of the weight back. Dr. Hirsch experimented with more people and came to the conclusion that obese people, when “artificially” down to a more normal weight, have a metabolism like a normally thin person does when he’s starving. (along with starvation dreams and fantasies).

In another experiment, by Dr. Sims, thin people who’d never had a weight problem were made to gain 20-25% of their weight by eating a 10,000 calorie diet. The article goes on and on about how 10,000 calories is so much (I am thinking to myself, 10,000? I could do that easily). The subjects had a hard time maintaining their higher weights as their metabolism increased, and at the end of the study, effortlessly lost all their excess.

These findings are either really liberating or really depressing, depending on your weight and how you feel about it. For me, I feel lucky to be happy content with myself at a size 10-12, because I feel confident about maintaining that for life while eating mostly sensibly (with treats — I ‘m not in prison, here) and exercising 3-5 times a week, which I want to do anyway for the other benefits (mental, emotional, etc).

In other words, my goal is to be healthy, rather than to be a model, though naturally I want to not look “fat.” I feel lucky also because it seems that my genes are not going to make this an extremely hard goal for me: while it would be easier for me to be size 14-16, I can do the smaller size without feeling like I am starving (though I do sometimes have the food fantasies and stuff). Maybe someday after I’m done with the kiddies, I will make it down to a size 8, but I’m not holding my breath (or that one brownie!).

Tips for a Sensible (I’ll stay sane and relatively cheerful) Diet Lifestyle

• Dispense with addictions (you’ll be free)
• Drink lots of water (see water epiphany below)
• Look at serving (portion) sizes (if I have to have ice cream, but I know that 1/2 cup is a serving size, then, by golly, I can eat a 1/2 cup of Black Jack Cherry if I want to)
• Cut out simple carbs (substitute whole grains and vegetables for white bread, pasta, potatoes, etc; but if you must have them, occasionally, see “Look at portion sizes”)
• Eat like you have your kids eat (but not if you’re an unreformed twice-a-day drive-thru mom. I realized I was in the habit of making dessert after the kids went to bed for time’s sake, but also so they wouldn’t want any, because, duh, dessert is not so good for you. Isn’t my health as important as theirs?)
• Breakfast like a king, Lunch like a merchant, Dine like a peasant (I read this advice in a trashy romance novel; the protagonist was a supermodel. Sounds pretty good, though)
• It’s wasted on your hips or on your plate. (My mother-in-law told me this when Dick and I were first married and I encouraged him to clean his plate. Yes, there are starving people somewhere in the world, but it won’t help them if I’m overweight)
• Don’t go hungry. Find some vegetables, somewhere, that you like, and keep them on hand. When you get hungry at a weird time, stuff that face of yours with something good! (I like brussels sprouts and broccoli)

*Water Epiphany

In my quest to become caffeine-addiction free, I quit cold turkey one warm summer day and guzzled about two gallons of water a day for a week. I felt like there was an oppressive cloud hanging over me the whole time, but I realized a couple of interesting things (besides that I never want to get addicted again). Usually when I exercise, I drink 1 1/2 liters of water in an hour. I thought this was a good thing. In the week that I was detoxing, I was only thirsty enough to drink about a half liter during my workout.

I thought, hmmm, maybe I am not drinking so much water while exercising because I am now adequately hydrated all the time. And then I thought about fasting. Fasting (going without food and water for 24 hours) has always been exceedingly not my favorite thing (or even in the top 100 of things) to do. Now I wonder if it would be much easier to fast if I am prepared for it by eating healthily, being completely hydrated in the month before, and not addicted (to caffeine or sugar or chocolate; obviously, I’m not going to kick my addiction to FOOD). Well, I’ll let you know on that. Right now I have at least four more months of nursing in which to put it off.

A “lifestyle change” is usually a worthy goal, but I find it rather overwhelming, and also, sometimes impossible to contemplate or envision when one is right in the middle of the current lifestyle. I think diets have been the tragic victims of a pejorative campaign, and I’d like to rejuvenate their image. In this sense, a diet is any course of action that is 1) sudden, 2) widespread, and 3) not necessarily intended to last forever. I think a “diet,” from sloppy spending or caffeine or bad carbs or lazing around or excessive TV watching or [insert bad habit], can help us see reality a little bit more clearly.

For example, last week when I realized I needed to make a major (!) change in my spending habits, I stayed home for a few days with the three angels. Gas is expensive again (still?) and I just thought I should avoid all temptation by sticking close to home. I was surprised by how much food Sally and Susan ate at breakfast and lunch. Susan ate three man-bowls of Cheerios in one sitting (with powdered milk!). I was mystified, until I realized that usually the girls snack constantly on apples and animal crackers, etc, in the minivan while I drive around doing whatever it is I do (did).

Also last week, I was feeling really puffy and flabby, which is not unusual for me since I am the mother of three (and not a model), but I felt it even more so right then, and that was weird because I’m weighing less now than I have for seven years (I should feel at least some better, right?). The next day my face broke out as it has not since the night before my junior prom. What on earth was going on — early menopause?

And then, two days later, my period started. Now, this shouldn’t be such a surprise to a healthy 29-year-old (for 9 more days!) female. But it was only five months ago that I went on a “diet” from the artificial birth control hormones, and so I was surprised by a string of events (“reality”) that any 13 year-old girl* would have recognized.

So, if there’s some diet (of any kind, not just the food variety) you’ve been thinking of trying, I urge you to give it a shot. With a diet, you can see immediate improvement (or at least change), and even after it’s “over,” you’ve re-set your perception of the baseline, or of reality. And then, one small brownie is as big a treat (almost) as half a pan used to be.

*(if you’re male and uncomfortable with girly things, you might want to skip this, but if you have girl-children, or might have girl-children in the future, it might save you some trouble.) The August after I turned 13, some cousins came over to play for the day (I don’t know where they came from or which cousins they were — maybe it was even Cousin Sylwia’s husband’s family — or maybe I am misremembering and it was just neighborhood children). Anyway, I remember jumping on the trampoline and eating hotdogs off the grill, and, four times that day, going downstairs to our big laundry room and hiding a bloody pair of underwear in the hamper, after which I rejoined the party outside.

That night, after all the guests were gone and my dad was at the hospital, I finally told my mom that I was bleeding. She called my dad (a family practice doctor, husband, and father of four at the time) to tell him his oldest daughter was bleeding. He told her to have a look and see if I had a cut. My parents had an awful (plush and functional though) brown and forest green master bathroom with deep soft carpet. Mom had a look. No cuts. Hmmm. I don’t remember how long it took (but certainly too long) before they realized that I had grown up.

I don’t know why that story makes me feel so warm and fuzzy inside. Not about having to have a period (or wear a bra or nylons or high heels — well, I only wear one of those). But somehow it’s so cute that my parents (and I) were not expecting that. When you think of how quickly kids grow up nowadays (how ‘tween girls are encouraged to dress like Paris Hilton), I think it would be a wonderful gift to be surprised when your daughter’s biology is ahead of her interests. I hope I can capture that reality for my girls, and let grown-up things come in their own time.

Marcy pointed out to me (quite unforgivably, I might add, since I could not argue* with what she said) that water is cheaper than Mountain Dew. Dang! It is also much less bad-carb-laden. Shoot! It is also less carbonated-to-rot-your- insides-and-tooth-enamel-and-shorten-your-wind. Fetch! And, last but not least, it is inordinately less caffeinated-so-Mom-is dependent-and-moody. ARGGGGHH.

So, I quit. Last Thursday, May 31st, 2007, around 2 pm I drank my last Coke Zero (I had run out of Mountain Dew the day before). Some relevant data:

• Days without caffeine: 5 (it feels like forever; man, I knew hours would sound better, but I am too fogged to add them up).
• Gallons of water guzzled: 15,000 (ok, that’s probably a slight exaggeration, but I have definitely exceeded two a day in an attempt to ward off headaches).
• Ibuprofen tablets (at 200 mg a pop) swallowed: 7 (not bad, actually; I’ve been mildly-pleasantly surprised in a depressed-resigned sort of way).
• Extra hours of sleep: 10 (that’s two per night for those of you in a non-caffeinated stupor).
• Cups of hot chocolate consumed: um, about 12 (okay, I know this is bad; chocolate is not so good for you, except, I do use the dark stuff. But I certainly don’t need the sugar or the whipped cream. It’s the lesser of two evils, right? Oh, and I haven’t had any brownies in months, so give me a break.)
• Weight lost: 2 pounds.

At first I planned to suffer in silence until I visit my family (including Marcy, lucky girl!) in three weeks. Wouldn’t they be impressed by my surprise heroism: Jane, not-caffeinated for the first time since her pregnancy with Sally. But yesterday I had this awful craving. Just one; what could that hurt? Luckily, there really are benefits to a spending moratorium — it demands a Mountain Dew moratorium as well.

Now that I have made my resolve public (Hi, my name is Jane and I am a Mountain Dewholic), I can think of the shame if I have to confess here that I have slipped. But I am wondering if it would be bad to drink some non-caffeinated Mountain Dew when I’m in Zion…

*This isn’t technically true. I am confident that I could find some way to argue almost anything if I really wanted to; in this case, I could say something about 2 liter bottles of Mountain Dew on sale versus designer water like San Pelligrino, but I’ve never really taken to Evian anyway. I’m actually downing the tap water because it’s got flouride, and my teeth need all the help they can get. ]]> http://www.seagullfountain.com/2007/06/05/in-which-i-confront-the-demon-mountain-dew-and-coke-zero-and-all-other-caffeinated-beverages/feed/ 14 http://www.seagullfountain.com/2007/05/27/i-just-wanted-you-to-know-that-youre-doing-something-right/ http://www.seagullfountain.com/2007/05/27/i-just-wanted-you-to-know-that-youre-doing-something-right/#comments Sun, 27 May 2007 22:40:04 +0000 Jane http://idratherbewriting.com/family/2007/05/27/i-just-wanted-you-to-know-that-youre-doing-something-right/ I got an interesting compliment at church today. Often when I get pep talks from people who aren’t chasing kids, I roll my eyes and escape. But this lady is also my favorite Sunday School teacher, and someone I admire. She was right; my kids were being pretty quiet: Spot was nursing/sleeping, Susan was snarfing Cheerios (even though I’d fed her a big bowl of cereal right before we left home), and Sally was running one of our new little cars (boy toys!) up and down a hymnal.

It had been a hectic morning getting everyone ready. I finished up my lesson preparation for Relief Society (the women’s class) around 8 am. Our late trip to Busch Gardens on Saturday paid off, though, in kids sleeping in until I was ready to deal with them. Church begins at the extremely civilized hour of 10 o’clock; I actually thought I was ready to walk out the door at 9:25, until I remembered the three bags (diaper, fun/nursery and scriptures/lesson) I needed to pack, and the small valuables I should probably gather to hide in our car since the house across the street was broken into this week.

Sis. M knows about my frustrations and feelings of inadequacy. She probably saw the grimace on my face as we walked in 5 minutes (so close! for once!) late. But she didn’t know that I somehow didn’t snap at a hard-to-console Spot this morning and I didn’t scream at Sally to HOLD STILL while I did her ponytail (or throw the hairbrush at the wall), and I didn’t yell when Susan threw 10 gallons of bathwater out of the tub. I didn’t think very mean thoughts about Dick’s laundry “technique” as I searched in vain for clothes to wear. I didn’t say any swear words — even in my head! A red-letter Sunday morning, indeed.

Sis. M leaned forward during the rest hymn and said, “Just now you remind me of the Myers’ family, kids being so good all sitting in a row; I just wanted you to know that you’re doing something right.” At the time I remembered how stressed I’d felt racing around to get out the door. And I thought, the only thing I’m doing right is that we’re here, and we’re always here. Even the most annoying children are bound to realize there’s a routine they can’t escape: they might as well sit down and enjoy (be quiet during) it.

Then I remembered part of Julie Beck’s talk that I’d studied for my lesson. Here’s an excerpt:

Ruth May Fox ? was born in England, and when she was 13, she walked almost every step to the Salt Lake Valley with a group of pioneers. Her mother died when she was a baby, so she spent the first dozen years of her life living with a number of different families. She must have been a difficult child to manage, because her grandmother called her a ?bad maid? and refused to take care of her.

Eventually, Ruth married and had 12 children. She shared her firm testimony with her children and taught gospel lessons while she worked beside them, but she admitted that her older children sometimes received harsh discipline because she had a quick temper and she did not always ?count [to] ten? when she was provoked. She worked hard to master this weakness and came to be known for her kind heart and service to others.

Sister Fox lived to be 104 years old. In her long life she experienced great joys and difficult trials, and she taught that ?life brings some hard lessons. The sturdiest plants are not grown under glass, and strength of character is not derived from the avoidance of problems.?

When she talks about her “older” children, I can only hope this refers to just numbers 1 & 2, and that by number 3 she had learned to master her temper. There’s no way I can handle 12 children in my (reluctant) quest to become kinder of heart and slower to temper. Ruth May’s motto was, “the Kingdom of God or nothing.” I bet Ruth May was a stay-at-home mom, someone who spent way too much of her time changing diapers and wiping snot. Or maybe she was like my husband, who spends way too much of his time in fruitless meetings and painstakingly solving computer glitches. Or like my kids, who spend too much time … nevermind; my kids have it good.

Life is much better when I remember that each stinky moment I encounter gracefully is bringing me one step closer to my ultimate goal. And maybe I am doing something right.