News Meania

Is it just me, or are the field reporters covering the Olympics downright heartless?

"So you've just been beaten out of a medal by one one-millionth of a point in this, your final Olympic Games. You've trained your whole life, and all for nothing. Tell me about the horror you're experiencing right now."

At this point the athletes, not known for their PR skills, are never looking at the camera. They stare dumbfounded at the scoreboard or timeclock, shaking from exhaustion and nerves, wishing that the earth would open up and swallow them whole to spare them the added humiliation of Perky Newswoman's inane line of questioning.

"What happened out there today?"

"Uh, I lost. I came and tried to win, but it turns out I was behind when the time ran out."

"There you have it folks. Heartbreak for Johnny Athlete, who certainly won't be coming back for the 2012 games."

Ouch.

First Day of School

There was a definite 'first day of school' feeling in the air today. I was out walking this morning at about the same time the school bus was circling the neighborhood, and the anticipation was so thick that even I felt nervous! Remember picking your outfit for the first day of school? I only remember one: sixth grade. It was a bright (BRIGHT) pink oversized t-shirt and white denim shorts. Complete with too-short bangs that I had tried to trim myself the week before, so I spent a lot of time raising my eyebrows that first month or so of middle school. Yikes.

I had a dream last night that it was my first day of going back to middle school for the second time. Yes, I had to repeat middle and high school if I wanted to get my Masters, so I was trying to explain to all my old teachers (mostly ones whom I loathed, then and now) that I needed to be squeezed into their classes. And for some reason I was trapped in the school parking lot at the end of the day, and I'd forgotten how to drive. But one of the school classrooms was entirely filled with chocolate bars, so it wasn't so bad.

Today really is Matt's first day of school, though he does have a couple of days to ease into actually teaching, what with the benefit of some assemblies and the like. He'll have to endure another 'first day' with his other teaching gig in a couple of weeks though, so that will more than make up for it. Here is my public declaration that my husband is a knock-your-socks-off teacher, and I have no doubt that he will have a successful year in both of his teaching endeavors. How could he not? He's smart, he works hard, he's had good training, and he is so darn likable (not to mention good-looking).

On an unrelated note, Truman is getting good at sharing. For example, this morning he fished the Chapstick out of the diaper bag, put in his mouth, then took it out and stuffed it into my mouth. After I spit it out, he popped it in his mouth again, then jammed it back into mine. Over and over and over again. Yes, he's getting quite good at sharing.

Moved

Well, we're here. There are still boxes to be unpacked, but thanks (many, many thanks) to my mother-in-law, who watched Truman this afternoon, my kitchen is completely put away. And in this house, that's pretty vital.

Things I like about this place:
*No mice
*Flooring firmly attached to walls (rather than diving into black, cobwebby crevices at every corner)
*Three words: Walk. In. Closet.
*Neighbors with babies who bring cookies. Er, well, the babies don't bring cookies, but a neighbor came with her baby and also fresh-baked cookies, which was pretty cool.
*Three more words: Central. Air. Conditioning.
*Finding out there are people from our old ward who moved into this ward just before we did.
*Being closer geographically to just about every family member who lives in Utah (sorry, Monticelloans...Monticelloites? Monticelloers...)

Things I'm going to have to get used to:
*Three flights of stairs.
*Downstairs neighbors.
*Young trees that provide precious little shade for afternoon walks.
*Being more than two blocks away from some people that I really like to spend time with.

I really can't think of anything else to 'get used to' - and given that the list of pros is substantially longer than the list of cons, I'd say we've made a good move.

In and Out

I think it's Brian Regan who has a sketch about how if the plural of 'ox' is 'oxen,' the plural of 'box' should be 'boxen.'

For those who don't know, we are moving on Saturday and are therefore living amid cardboard boxen for the next five days. This is not to be confused with living in a cardboard box, which is something entirely different - though this does feel somewhat similar to living out of a suitcase. And it is sort of driving me out of my mind.

I find myself trying to make the most of our last few days here; we're not moving that far away, but I know I won't be able to take my early morning walks along the river trail or walk to the grocery store where we're headed. And we're spending like fiends since we're trying to use up all the coupons we have for around here because, as Matt says, "That's how you really save money."

I am going to miss my little house - maybe not the brown carpet so much, but the picturesque look of the front yard, knowing that I brought my first baby home from the hospital to these four walls, the impossibly small bathroom (wait, not that either...), being able to jump around in the living room doing workout videos without getting a call from downstairs neighbors. It's been good to us.

I am really going to miss the friends we've made here. I don't know much what else to say about that, except that if they're reading this, they know who they are.

And it's on to the next big adventure.

Ch-ch-changes

I'm toying with new templates for my blog, but I keep reverting back to the original in the meantime (sans picture of me with the emu, which always gets lost in the shuffle). Anyway, just thought I'd explain if you happen on here sometime and see dinosaurs or foliage or something unexpected. "Excuse our mess, we're under construction!"

Chickens and/or Feathers

"Chicken or feathers."

My dad used this phrase on me when I was in college and bemoaning the fact that I had either ten (okay, maybe not ten - maybe, like, two) guys after me or none at all. I like the imagery of the feathers part; I imagine myself as a cartoon character standing, dazed, in the cloud of feathers left behind when a chicken makes a shotgun-type exit. Or explodes.

I'm finding that there are lots of things in life that are chicken-or-feathers:

- Truman was the only baby born on either side of the family last year. This year, between our two families, we're welcoming seven babies. Can you say CHICKEN?!

- If I've got an idea for this blog, I've got a truckload of ideas. I have to physically restrain myself from posting more than about every other day...until I run out of ideas. Then I don't post for a month. Enter feathers, stage left.

- My child hasn't been eating for about the last three weeks. Purses his lips when he sees a spoon, throws a tantrum when placed in the high chair, you name it. But for the last three days I haven't been able to get enough food in him. One thing that he has yet to eat is chicken (are you catching the subtle reference here?), but he does, miraculously, eat refried beans.

- I got asked today what kinds of things I like to do. "You know, what are your hobbies?" After learning that the asker's hobbies ranged from knitting to rock climbing to charcoal drawing, my limited list of hobbies (cook, eat, rinse, repeat) felt a lot like...feathers.

Anyone else feeling the drought-or-drowning dilemma?

Aching

Sometimes I ache.

When I see any kind of stage performance, I ache to be up there. I miss singing my heart out under bright lights and the electric feeling of being on stage.

Sometimes I ache terribly for my family, especially when I realize that, geographically, the nine of us are only bound to get further apart. And that the few-times-yearly visits to my parents' house will likely make up the rest of the memories I will ever have of my mother and father.

Many times I have ached for the man I would marry - the man who now lights up my life with his grin and his schemes (both equally irresistible).

I almost hesitate to write it, but I know I ache for my dead brother. Even though we never met in this life, my heart misses him.

Most of the time, like tonight, I ache to create - to give form or freedom to the heaviness in my heart that yearns to leave a tangible legacy.

And tears spring to my eyes as I realize that he's 11 months old and sleeping in the next room.