—

Earlier today Hazel was singing words from “The Girl I Mean to Be” from The Secret Garden, so I found it on iTunes and played it for her while I was reading email.  I felt something stroking my hair, and turned and saw she’d been combing it with a (clean) paintbrush. Then she stroked her own face and hair with the paintbrush.

I smiled at her. Suddenly she lashed out with the paintbrush, sword-like, shouting, “Hai-ya!”

I raised my eyebrows, and she giggled.

—

While I was driving 6th-grader Mabel to the library to get some books for a homework assignment, she mentioned that they’ve started the Jazz Read-a-Thon thing again at her school, and she’s not excited about it. “It’s not like having some basketball player come read to us is going to motivate me to read.”

“And then when they come,” I joked, “They’re all, ‘Hey kids, reading is fun and you should all read a lot.’ But they’ve never read a book before, so they’re struggling to read it–”

“Yes! They’re like, ‘Uh, the cat . . . sat . . . on . . . the . . . mat.”

“Really? I was kidding!”

“Well, I was exaggerating. But they’re not good readers at all.”

Mabel on Christmas morning

—

Mabel (along with hundreds of other local girls, I’m sure) is planning to audition for The Secret Garden at a local theater, and at dinner we were saying that, whether or not Mabel’s in the show, we’d like to go see it.

I said, “I love that show. You know it has a song that, if I die before Dad, I would want to have a really good singer sing at my funeral?”

Mabel asked, “Which song?”

Dean said, “A Bit of Earth”?

Mabel joined in, quoting from the show: “Might I have a bit of earth?”

(I laughed for about 5 minutes. But the song I’d actually want my sister Mary to sing at my funeral is How Could I Ever Know?)

Impromptu Christmas portrait–taken after church by an obliging neighbor girl. Perhaps someday I will figure out how not to appear terrified of the camera. (Better still would be to actually not be terrified–but that’s asking a lot.)

“You mean my croquis?”

“Yeah. I want one of those.”

“They’re really easy to make–just have someone take a picture of you in your underwear or a swimsuit, then take it into Photoshop and get an outline of your body. You can use a filter to get the outline or just trace around it.”

“Yeah. Where’s your croquis?”

“I’m not sure. Somewhere in my sewing room.”

“I want to use it. Because you don’t want to help me make one right now.”

“You could get someone else to take a photo of you.”

“I just want to use your one. Where is it?”

“Probably in a folder on a bookshelf. I don’t want to come look for it for you. Actually, I don’t really want you to use it.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . it’s my body. It’s private. And the last time, you drew those awful pictures.”

Mabel laughs. “No, I didn’t! You did. You’re the one who drew yourself in a tutu.” A few minutes later she finds the folder. She shows me some of my drawings of clothes I’d like to sew, and says, “See, you did these bad ones.”

“Oh, thanks.” Mabel flips through some more and finds the sheet of her drawings. I point to the one of me in a fuzzy bodysuit with pom-pom antennae. “See?”

Mabel laughs again. “But these are awesome.” A few minutes later she brings me drawings of me in a flapper outfit and a full-skirted princess dress. “Do you like these?”

“Well, the flapper one’s pretty cool.”

“See?!”

Later, I say, “I can’t believe I’m thinking of putting that drawing of the fuzzy bodysuit on my blog. I don’t want to put that drawing on my blog.”

“But you have to! It’s funny! People will laugh!”

“It’s embarrassing! Well . . . okay. Maybe.”

—

I think I just won enough good-sport points to last me a LONG time.

—

In a not-entirely-unrelated story, today some friends at church were telling us how, about a year ago, Rose (who’s now 7) had been sitting next to them in Sacrament meeting, and Rose kept drawing the husband, then she would point to his face and furiously cross it out.

I laughed. “That sounds like Rose, all right. But why did she do that? Was she mad at you?”

The husband admitted, “I might have made some faces at her.”

It’s been just over three weeks now since I broke my wrist, and I’m happy to say that I’m doing much better–I don’t have much pain, and the bruising all over my elbow and arm is mostly gone. It’s going to take a few months for the stretched and compressed nerve to heal enough to get back all the feeling in my palm and thumb, which is annoying, but at least will have an end. And I lost almost all the mobility in my wrist, and will have to work hard to get it back. I haven’t started physical therapy yet, but I’m supposed to start moving my wrist gently-but-firmly forward, backward, and twisting it. Twisting is the hardest; I can’t quite imagine ever again being able to easily do simple things like sweeping crumbs into my left palm. (I do believe I’ll be able to, but it’s hard to picture.) Today I did squats and lunges and jumping jacks (stepping-jacks, actually; I don’t jump) to get my muscles warm, then worked on moving my wrist, pushing gently into the pain to increase my range of motion. I was breathing deeply and slowly, in and out, shaking just a little from the pain, and realized that although I always breathe deeply during stretching, the breathing was also helping me manage the pain. I thought, “Huh, I didn’t know deep breathing could help manage pain–I wonder how I knew to do that?” And then I virtually slapped myself on the forehead as I remembered the very obvious reason I knew to do that. I guess it’s nice that a skill learned for giving birth has other applications.

This was my first-ever broken bone or surgery, and the whole experience was strangely not too dissimilar from my babies’ births–especially Hazel’s early induction because of gestational hypertension, which was a very “medicalized” birth experience. The biggest difference between the two experiences, of course, is that I don’t have a cute Hazel to show for this one–just some interesting sonograms, and a lot of physical therapy ahead of me. I just realized that since I usually give myself six weeks off from housework and other commitments after I have a baby, even the time frames are similar, since that’s how long I’ll wear a splint/brace. (I wore the splint for two weeks, and now I’m in a brace that I can remove to shower and stretch.) (When I was given the brace, which has elastic lacing on the sides that you can’t see in the above photo, I said, “Oh, it’s kind of steampunk.” The nurse smiled, but I suspect she was just being polite.)

Here are front and side views of my repaired radius, taken immediately after surgery. The base of my hand is at the top of the images. I was showing these to my brother Spen and he said that, in a way, they were beautiful–and I do feel it’s a miracle to be put back together so neatly. But between you and me, as someone who does a lot of fine handwork, I kind of wished the stitches on my incision were a little more even and neat. But I’m sure it’s a whole different art to stitch in flesh–plus, the pain would have probably gotten in the way of my sewing the incision back up by myself. And the scar will fade eventually.

—

(I actually had a couple of non-wrist-related anecdotes I was going to write, but I’ve already used up my blogging time for now, so I’ll have to see if I can find more time later.)

Mabel’s supposed to come up with 100 adjectives to describe herself that she must then incorporate into a story for school. (Yes, she and I agree that excessive adjectives can get in the way of a “show-don’t-tell” writing aesthetic–but that’s the assignment.) She had sixty already, and I told her I’d try to come up with some more, without consulting her list first, so as not to influence me. (I was influenced, however, by her telling me she wants her story to be about starting at a new school last year and making new friends. I also had a little help from a thesaurus.)

Here was my list:

playful, inquisitive, persistent, untidy, energetic, enthusiastic, exuberant, thoughtful, adventurous, ambitious, creative, absurd, silly, fearless, intense, emotional, extreme, variable, delightful, fun-loving, talkative, loquacious, verbose, analytical, challenging, investigative, questioning, enterprising, audacious, comedic, humorous, headstrong, mischievous, teasing, impish, thrifty, prolific, excessive, diverse, multi-talented

Then I looked to see how what I had compared with what she already had:

social, quirky, awkward, impulsive, short, meticulous, gloomy, organized, angry, sloppy, absurd, repetitive, amusing, talkative, playful, shrewd, gallant, uncertain, complex, lovable, excessive, eloquent, giggly, pinchy, Pythagorean, sappy, stiff, inquisitive, mathematical, obsessed, loose, vexatious, wandering, connected, imaginative, original, inspirational, immature, pessimistic, nosy, smiley, single, dreamy, irritating, enduring, religious, faithful, attentive, capable, inane, accurate, wheezy, comedic, steadfast, dependable, perceptive, modest, extreme, radical, rash, comprehending, unrestrained, significant, influential, persuasive, corrective, enchanting, haphazard, juvenile, aware, sympathetic, economical

Update: Here’s her completed list.

absentminded
absorbed
absurd
accurate
affectionate
ambitious
amusing
analytical
articulate
associated
attentive
audacious
aware
awkward
capable
comedic
complex
comprehending
conciliatory
connected
convivial
coordinated
corrective
dependable
dexterous
dreamy
eloquent
emotional
enchanting
enduring
enterprising
excessive
expeditious
experienced
experimental
extreme
exuberant
faithful
favorable
flexible
forgetful
giggly
gregarious
haphazard
headstrong
imaginative
immature
impulsive
inane
influential
inquisitive
inspirational
irritating
juvenile
loose
loquacious
lovable
mathematical
meticulous
mischievous
modest
nosy
oblivious
obsessed
organized
original
perceptive
persistent
persuasive
triumphant
playful
polite preoccupied
prolific
Pythagorean
quirky
radical
rash
reckless
reformatory
religious
repetitive
resourceful
sappy
short
shrewd
significant
single
sloppy
social
spastic
steadfast
testifying
triumphant
uncertain
unrestrained
untidy
verbose
vexatious
virtuous
wandering

This morning I was upstairs, and overheard Mabel saying something to Dean about her monologue. I came to the top of the stairs and said, “I just got a good idea, Mabel–”

Mabel interrupted me. “I was just telling Dad I could be Titania–the fairy queen–and I could wear my Halloween dress with all the flowers on it, and a pair of our fairy wings–”

“That’s exactly what I was just going to suggest.”

Now if she could just bring her little sister as a prop.

Zina: “No.”

Dean: “Do you have homework?”

Mabel: “No. I did my homework.”

Dean: “Then go to bed.” Dean cackles.

Zina: “Why did you just laugh at your daughter like an . . . amused goat?”

Mabel: “There’s no such thing as an amused goat.”

Dean: “Yes there is. That’s why they call them billy goats.”

Dean and Zina laugh hard.

Mabel: “What’s funny about that?”

Zina: “I’m going to have to turn the computer back on so I can put that on my blog.”

Mabel: “But it doesn’t make any sense–does it?”

Zina: “No. It doesn’t.”

If you haven’t read the article yet, and if you’ve ever been told to savor every moment of a really difficult stage of life, go follow that link and read it. You’ll love it.

I don’t have anything new to add to what she said, but since I’ve had my own version of almost the exact same point as an imaginary blog post for quite a while, reading hers prompted me to get mine written down. If you only have time to read one post today, read hers. But then if you have a little more time (or a particular wish to put off some unpleasant real-life task a little longer) please feel welcome to come back and read mine.

—

In a General Conference talk in 2008, Apostle M. Russell Ballard quoted author Anna Quindlen:

The biggest mistake I made [as a parent] is the one that most of us make. … I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of [my three children] sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages six, four, and one. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.

(Loud and Clear [2004], 10–11).

Before I go on, let me say that I love Elder Ballard’s talk, and it’s another great one to read if you haven’t yet, or if you just feel like leaving this post twice to go read other articles. But I have to admit that the Anna Quinlen quote stuck in my craw. I love the sentiment of it, the reminder to treasure moments. But I also thought this:

You know, I am treasuring motherhood. There’s probably not a day that goes by that I don’t stare at one or another of my kids and think, “Your existence is a pure miracle, and I’m the luckiest woman alive to have been the one to carry you into this life, and to shepherd your way through its beginnings.” I do treasure the beautiful and hilarious moments, and sometimes I even manage to run to my computer and write them down before I forget them.

But, dang it, SOMEBODY does have to make sure that dinner and baths happen, that homework is completed, rooms get cleaned, dishes get washed. Somebody has to make sure that things get done. It’s not fun. But it’s my job. And I just don’t think that I’m going to look back years from now and think I didn’t enjoy it enough. I’m going to look back and be proud of myself for trying so hard, for pushing through when I was tired and would have rather just sat back and enjoyed the moment–but instead I got up and made those baths and dinners happen.

(Since my own self-quote is as long as Quindlen’s, I indented it like hers, because it amused me to do so. Formatting humor!)

Then a year or two later there was another General Conference talk about savoring the brief special moments of motherhood, which I thought made a nice balance to the Quindlen quote–and which is also what the author of the Don’t Carpe Diem post goes on to say–that motherhood is a long slog most of the time, with occasional brief breaks in the clouds, or beautiful vistas.

(Does anybody remember who gave the treasuring-the-moments talk? I didn’t find it yet. If you know which one it is, tell me and I’ll link it here–so there will be not just two, but three links to other things to read instead of this post!)

In the Don’t Carpe Diem post (I would just refer to the author by name, but I only see her first name, Glennon) I love her comparison about people telling you to enjoy every moment of hiking Everest. But I will also say that my own motherhood experience isn’t quite like Everest–mainly because with all the snow and cold and bleakness, I’ve never been the least bit inclined to climb Everest, and I can barely stand to watch documentaries about people who do. But I usually do enjoy reading about others’ colorful experiences in the wild terrain of whatever their motherhood landscape looks like. And I’d compare my own experience to, say, hiking on a beautiful but treacherous mountain in unpredictable weather. Sometimes you come upon a field of wildflowers that’s stunning, but you’re so winded you barely have breath to comment on it. And other times blizzards come up and you can’t see anything and you almost die. And then other times one of your kids falls into a deep crevasse and you can’t think about anything else until that kid is rescued. Yet other times, you’re the one that falls into a ravine, because your kids push you in. And another time your child is climbing a cliff wall and you’re the one below, belaying him, even though you don’t even like rock-climbing or heights.

So, that was my little addition to Glennon’s wonderful words. And now Henry needs help choosing some church clothes, and Mabel’s been trying to tell me about a school assignment, and it’s time for me to get off the computer and go get some things done. Maybe I’ll even enjoy it.

This is something I’ve been meaning to address for some time now, but since it involved logging into my old abandoned Bloger blog and taking screenshots, it’s taken me a while to get to it. But it’s Oh! So! Important! At least, it is if you care about me and other Mozilla Firefox users, and want us to be able to comment on your blog.

So, here’s the deal. A lot of you, when you set up your blogs, chose an embedded comment format for comments. But what you don’t know is that, for some reason I haven’t been able to discover, people who use Mozilla Firefox–or who have some configuration like what I have on my computer–will NOT be able to comment in that comment box. They will write their comment, click “post,” and everything they wrote will disappear. Try and try again, their comment WILL NOT POST.

Here’s a screenshot of what the “embedded comments” box looks like:

This form does NOT like me. When I see it, I give up and go away silently.

I used to be able to work around this by opening Windows Explorer, which I would only do if I were extremely motivated to make a comment. But now even that won’t work, so maybe there’s also some other setting on my computer that’s keeping embedded comments from working for me. But at any rate, I’ve discovered, from Googling, that a) I’m NOT the only one with this problem, and b) nobody knows a solution.

So, if you’d like me and my kind to still be able to come say nice things to you on your blog, here’s the simple fix:

1. Log into your blog’s dashboard.

2. Click on “Settings,” and then on the “Comments” tab.

3. Under “Comment Form Placement,” you’ll see three options: Full page, Pop-up window, and Embedded below post. “Embedded below post” is the one you DO NOT WANT (if you love me). Choose one of the other options.

You’re done!

But here’s a story from before I broke my wrist. We were having a retirement party for my mom at my house the week before Christmas. (She retired after working many years at our local library.) My mom had shown up late for the party–I’d accurately guessed that she would be finishing up making Christmas stickers for the grandkids from vintage images, since I’d heard her mention she wanted to do that–but once she showed up, we played “After the Manner of the Adverb.” If you haven’t played, it’s a game where one person leaves the room, and the remaining players choose an adverb. Then the person comes back and asks various people to do tasks, and they have to do them while acting out the chosen adverb.

When my mom left the room, we chose “distractedly.” She returned, and after a couple of clues hadn’t quite guessed the word. We were waiting for her to call on someone else when she turned, pointed at a Christmas banner hanging up in my living room, and said, “Oh! I hadn’t noticed that yet!”

That’s right, my mom acted out her own clue.

My girls were excited about these because we eat off of life-sized versions of the turquoise ones. I forgot to brighten these before printing them, so I’m going to try a new set tomorrow to get the nice pastel colors. (In a rare reversal, these photos look better than the real-life plates.)

I think I burned my left thumb a little while I was making these, but I can’t tell because my thumb is numb.

(Instructions are in the previous post.)