The Overheard Logic of a Three Year Old

Talmage: "Hey Tyler!"
Tyler: "I'm Daddy."
Talmage: "No, you TY-ler."
Tyler: "But I'm your Daddy."
Talmage: "You Tyler AND Daddy."
Tyler: "Someday you're going to be a daddy."
Talmage: " . . . And someday you going be a Talmage?"

Christmas Dancing

More Sledding

A Brief Essay About Santa Claus

“Robbie, there isn’t really a Santa Claus. Sorry.”

The tears well up in Robbie’s eyes as he contemplates what his mother is telling him. How could this be? The person he trusts most in this world is now telling him the exact opposite of what she has insisted on since the beginning of time. In Robbie’s short life, he is yet to have experienced a more shocking conflict of beliefs.

Robbie tries to hold onto anything he has left. “Well . . . then . . . are Heavenly Father and Jesus real?”

“Oh, yes!” His mother insists with a little bit of panic. “We were telling you the truth about those two! They are very real.”

Robbie spends the rest of a bittersweet Christmas adjusting his paradigm.

This is a true account of my cousin’s conversation with her son. Most of us have been on both sides of this conversation. Most of us have tasted the disappointment and loss of the transition from “believer” to “nonbeliever.” Is the magic children experience during their years as a “believer” worth the pain caused when the so-called truth about Santa Claus finally surfaces? Absolutely not! However, don’t be too hasty to put the story of Santa Claus on the shelf or to call me a Scrooge. My son, too, went to bed tonight speaking of “Sant.” I am willing to tell my son of Santa Claus because I know what many brilliant people do not know: Santa Claus is real!

I was either eight or nine. While looking at my sister’s dollhouse on Christmas day, I noticed a green material glued to the perimeter of the edifice. The material was clearly meant to represent grass. The material itself was of little importance, but its context got the wheels in my head turning. Two years earlier, we had received a beautiful train set from Santa Claus mounted to a table covered with the same green material. Furthermore, I was acutely aware that a roll of that same green material was stored in our basement.

Mom didn’t hesitate when I presented my evidence to her. She took me to the staircase and closed the door quietly. With her arms around me, she told me the rest of the story.

“Tyler . . . there really is a Santa Claus. He doesn’t live in the North Pole or fly to every house on Christmas Eve. Rather, we all are Santa Claus. Every single person who gives at Christmas time is Santa Claus.”

The significance of this conversation did not fully sink home in that moment. My own paradigm had been thrown for a loop. Clearly, the most jaw dropping discovery for me at that moment was that no one in a red suit actually lived in the North Pole. This put an X on the elves as well, which I found as a relief. Clearly, elves are the creepiest part of the Santa Claus story.

While serving as a missionary in Argentina, I got into a conversation with a companion about Santa Claus. Elder Reid and I walked long distances across a sparse community. Our long walks often lent themselves to profound philosophical topics such as Santa Claus.

As a young boy, David Reid suffered through the same rite of passage most of us do. While sitting in the back of the car, he got the infamous “confession” from his Mom. Balancing her attention on the road and her son seen through the rear-view mirror, David’s mom asked, “Are you OK?” Though Elder Reid assured his mom it was no big deal, he confided in me otherwise. He was devastated by the news—by the deception. I, too, am devastated by the deception. However, I believe the deception began on the day of the confession rather than ended then. Santa is real!

Clearly a three-year old is not yet mature enough to understand the magic of giving. I have one sleeping on the floor next to me right now, and I promise you, he always prefers getting. The fantastical story of Santa Claus is told in a way even he understands. As he grows older, the details will be clarified. Only those who eventually teach their children that Santa is not real deceive their children. Furthermore, they are no longer justified in the fantastical story they have perpetuated for so many years. What a waste!

As I write this, the magic of Christmas blankets the Earth. It’s 11:30 pm on Christmas Eve. My son sleeps in front of a fire in one of two sleeping bags laid out on the floor. I will shortly join him in the other. Tonight is different than any other night. Because I was taught of Santa as a boy and I learned to act as Santa as an adult, my thoughts are different tonight. Tonight, my thoughts celebrate a Santa Claus whose gifts I cherish above all. I feel closer to Him tonight. Whether it be my frame of mind or a true unseen, unexplained magic, I am certain tonight is different than any other. It happens every year. It’s why I can't ever sleep on the night of December the 24th. Merry Christmas!

And . . . Bah Humbug!

The Best Christmas Pageant Ever

Check Out Those Hips

I was belittled at my first rehearsal for this number. My school secretary told me I didn't have the "womanly hips" to be able to shake it. I took that as a challenge.

I apologize for the quality of the video. This is what happens when you put your video camera into the hands of a fifth grader.

Fahrenheit 451

I've been meaning to read this book for awhile and I'm glad I did.

Ray Bradbury outlines a futuristic world where humanity's (or just America's) drive for pleasure and entertainment have brought about a world with no conflict of information. Arguably, he details a world where there is no information at all, just visual and actual delight in mindless droning and violence. In this world that seeks pleasure, no one is pleased. People lack meaningful connections. People lack meaning.

At one point in the novel, Montag--who is a "fireman," a person who sets fire to books and the conflicting viewpoints they contain--meets a man named Faber who was once a college professor. The professor outlines three things necessary for thinking to take place: quality, or texture of information; leisure, not for leisure for entertainment's sake, but leisure to digest the quality ideas; and "the right to carry out actions based on what we learn from the interaction of the two" (85). Montag yearns to think and to form connections in a society of people who don't ignore meaning.

As I've thought about my life, the parts that are most meaningful to me fall in one of these three areas. I enjoy receiving textured information--in books, in conversations with people, at church. I'm grateful for time to digest. This blog is the space I've made to digest books, and I'm grateful for the metacognitive nature of writing; when I am serious in my scripture study, that becomes a valuable time for me to knock out ideas. And I'm grateful for the right I have to carry out the ideas I feel to be right; I think the main reason I chose to become a mother was because I believed in a value system that encouraged that. And being a mother and wife is the most valuable thing I have in life.

When I end my art history classes, I tell the students that I don't care whether they remember that Abbot Suger created the Gothic style through pointed arches; I don't care if they remember that Trajan was called "Optimus Maximus." What I do hope for is that my students have practiced thinking about things and thinking in new ways. In the novel, Beatty--the defender of censored lifestyle--describes the "information" the society is fed:

Give the people contests they win by remembering the words to more popular songs or the names of state capitals or how much corn Iowa grew last year. Cram them full of noncombustible data, chock them so damned full of 'facts' they feel stuffed, but absolutely 'brilliant' with information. They they'll feel they're thinking, they'll get a sense of motion without moving. And they'll be happy, because facts of that sort don't change.

It's not memorizing data that's important, it's the digesting information that helps people to become better.

More thoughts--

When Faber is describing the quality of information that can be found anywhere, but particularly in books, he explains:

Do you know why books such as [the Bible] are so important? Because they have quality. And what does the word quality mean? To me it means texture. This book has pores. It has features. This book can go under the microscope. You'd find life under the glass, streaming past in infinite profusion. [...] So now do you see why books are hated and feared? They show the pores in the face of life.

I guess I just think that's beautiful. But the idea continues that texture is irrespective of truth, a value that must be sifted out in the digesting of that texture. And then my mind remembered a quote from my favorite play Inherit the Wind that explains why that texture should not be feared. Rachel has just seen her fiance Bert put on trial for teaching Charles Darwin's Origin of the Species in the southern Bible belt. Thinking is on trial, too, and Rachel declares her own verdict:

You see, I haven't really thought very much. I was always afraid of what I might think--so it seemed safer not to think at all. But now I know. A thought is like a child inside our body. It has to be born. If it dies inside you, part of you dies, too! (pointing to [The Origin of the Species]) Maybe what Mr. Darwin wrote is bad. I don't know. Bad or good, it doesn't make any difference. The ideas have to come out--like children. Some of 'em healthy as a bean plant, some sickly. I think the sickly ideas die mostly, don't you, Bert?

I'm grateful for books and for the variety of ideas I encounter through them. I'm grateful for the opportunity to digest ideas and sift out what I know to be true in them. And I'm grateful to live in a society that allows me to act on what I feel to be good.

Just ASKIN For It

So I stirred up a bit of controversy over my least favorite Christmas songs. Particularly "Oh Holy Night." But please, the two octave cresendo? The drama of it all? It fits if you are an opera singer, but if you are Jessica Simpson, you have no business singing that song. I know this is blasphemous, particularly as my best friend Shelley fell in love with at least three boys who sang that song for her. Let's face it, Shelley. Steve Wilken had no business singing that song.

But while I'm in the doghouse, I thought I'd stir the pot a bit and name my top five overrated bands of all time.

5. Queen. I was born in the 80s, raised on the 60s and 70s. Only if you listen to Arrow 103.5 do you know that that line has to be said with all the drama mustered by the preview announcer detailing a Bruce Willis movie. Because in a world where music is of great importance, one era stands alone. THIS is classic rock. (Props to Robert Porter and Buttonhooked who I just stole that line from.) And half the time that I turn to that classic rock station, Freddie Mercury is belting a sports ballad.

Let it be known, this girl has had enough "We Will Rock You."

4. Neil Diamond. I'm pretty sure that my father-in-law just stood up from the computer and vowed never to talk to me. Not my husband though. I think he'll stay with me for Talmage's sake. HE'S NOT SINGING, PEOPLE, HE'S TALKING.

Maybe if he wrote a classic song about a girl named Laura that the Boston Red Sox fans sang at every game. Nope, not even then.

3. Dave Matthews Band. I know they're pretty much defunct, what with the death of their saxophonist, but I didn't understand their lack of melody. Which is ironic, because I'm just fine with progressive rock. Although maybe just Jethro Tull; I've never been a huge Rush fan. Didn't get Dave Matthews Band then, don't get it now. Maybe it was the saxophone. Something Kenny G-ish.

2. Coldplay. I know, I know, they've been hailed as the next U2. But every time I hear the beginning of "Clocks," I feel like I'm hearing the same high pitched incessant noise that I can't shake out of my head. "Viva la Vida" is okay, though. Might as well throw them a bone.

And the number one overrated band:

1. U2. And I'm pretty sure that my brother-in-law Jason has just stood up and left the computer, vowing to never talk to me again. After all, Jason did give me the Greatest Present You Could Ever Receive, the album The Best of 1990-2000, the limited edition PLUS the B-sides PLUS the bonus DVD. And if you go to the music store right now and ask for the limited edition they will laugh. In your face. And my opinion on U2's overratedness in no way diminishes how AWESOME that gift was and is and HOW MUCH I enjoy it. It's just that every roommate I ever had in college had Joshua Tree on repeat. All day. All night. All semester. Now I like "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" as much as the next girl (not as much as Jason. I'd never claim that). But how else do you explain how "With or Without You" was Skyline High School's 1997 Senior Prom theme? How does that make teenage romantic sense?

There's only one answer. The overratedness.

* I think I came off as more offensive than funny in this post. I hope I didn't make anyone feel awkward. I apologize if I did.

Fast . . . Crash!

Because You MUST Be Curious

I haven't killed the tree yet. So there.

Hate That Cat

Talmage just said, "Mom, I like you so much." That's why I had children. For the love.

I read Love That Dog by Sharon Creech a couple of years ago and absolutely loved it. This is pretty much the same book. Creech uses a fun format--writing from the perspective of a ten year old who is learning about poetry. The boy's poems compose the novel. I loved the ideas of the first book, that you learn about yourself and experiences by writing about them (that's the main reason I write about books on this blog--because I know what I think about the books when I write about them). It also brought back my love for poetry, a love that kind of got quashed when I spent all my time writing argumentatively. I think I need to throw more books of poetry into my reading list. Any suggestions?

This book explored some of the tools for writing poetry--figurative language, meter, etc. I also liked that the boy changes his opinion during the year; as he writes about an idea he finds that idea evolving.

My favorite poem in the book is inspired by Alfred Lord Tennyson:

The Kitten

She pats the package with padded paws
and pulls apart the golden gauze
with her tiny furry jaws.

The like an acrobat she leaps
legs and ribbon in a heap
tangled round and tangled deep.

I like words.

I do want to read Walk Two Moons now. Creech won a Newberry for that book and I've heard many people recommend it.

Okay, that's all.

Toro House

How I Know I Am GREAT With Child

1. One standard size towel is no longer sufficient to modestly cover me after I get out of the shower.
2. Last week at church everyone told me how great I looked. This week everyone asked me "So WHEN are you due?"
3. Today the bakery counter at Smith's asked me if I felt like I was going to pop.
4. My jeans don't stay up. You need hips for that kind of action.
5. The old stretch marks have been restretched.
6. Talmage asked me today, "Hey! How your tummy get so big?"
7. When resting my book on my belly last night, it started bouncing around when the kid rolled over.
8. My belly button is threatening to pop. As Tyler has told me that this is the only thing that could possibly happen to make me unattractive to him, I'm a little nervous.

Last Christmas You Gave Me Your Heart; The Very Next Day I Gave It Away

I've had some questions on the Christmas tree.

Tyler and I are approaching our seventh Christmas as a married couple. There are a couple of unresolved differences in our marriage. I would like him to eat wheat bread. He'd like me to leave him alone about the white bread. I'd like him to care just a little bit less about football (I know, that's blasphemous). He'd like me to be grateful he's not into baseball.

And most importantly right now, I'd like a real Christmas tree. Tyler would like a fake one.

Last year when we were poor teachers, I caved and we borrowed a fake tree. It was fine and I was grateful we had any tree at all, even though faking a tree is kind of like faking Christmas. This year we are wealthy teachers, and I knew that we were back to piney business as usual. Tyler, however, took last year as a precedent and assumed we were buying our own artificial holiday.

Our conversation sounded a bit like a father and a daughter when the daughter desperately wants a puppy (a conversation I happen to remember a lot about).

"But we kill it every year."
"I won't this year, I promise. I'll water it and love it and take it on a walk everyday."
"It will be a fire hazard."
"It won't. I promise, promise, promise."

Tyler's infallible logic was working until I whipped up a fresh batch of tears.

We bought a real tree.

And, as a note to anyone who comments on this, if you try to tell me how much more practical fake trees are, I wish you a lump of coal in your stocking.

This weekend we also pulled out the Christmas playlist, and I have, for your reading pleasure, my top best and worst Christmas songs.

BEST:
5. "Oh Savior Thou Who Wearest a Crown of Piercing Thorns." It's in the hymn book. Apparently 15 years long friends are picky about how this is an Easter song. Fine. I change this one to "Coventry Carol."
4. "Baby It's Cold Outside." I'm kind of partial to the Ella Fitzgerald version.
3. Barenaked Ladies and Sarah McLaughlan sing "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen/We Three Kings."
2. Jack Johnson sings "Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer."
1. Mannheim Steamroller doing "Silent Night." Whatever happened to those guys?

WORST:
4. "Oh Holy Night." Any version. Except maybe the version Denise Williams sings during the church Christmas meeting.
3. Neil Diamond sings anything Christmas. This probably has more to do with my general disdain for Neil Diamond, a disdain Tyler calls un-American.
2. Michael McLean's Forgotten Carols. I'm sorry; I'm sure it's a Christmas tradition in your family. But go listen to "I Cry the Day That I Take the Tree Down" and then tell me with a straight face that it belongs with the likes of Bing Crosby and Karen Carpenter.

And finally, the number one worst Christmas song:

1. John Lennon and Yoko Ono's "Happy Christmas." Bleh. Somehow worse in Portuguese.

Possibly, The Last Real Christmas Tree The Howes Will Ever Have

Who Would Believe Such Abuse and Neglect? And From Such An Attractive Family.

I've recently become aware that some of my students are reading this blog, a fact which makes me nervous on many levels, but I thought maybe I should give a better sample of the eye candy my husband truly is. Granted, the majority of the curlies are gone, but you'll notice I tricked him into keeping some of them.

There is a lot of drama in my relationship with my son Talmage. As much as I hated dating, I would almost prefer the drama between fifteen-year-old me and fifteen-year-old crush--does he like me, why won't he kiss me, now he likes me and I don't like him, blah, blah, blah. That was more fun. The current drama typically ends with me breaking down in ugly sobs and Talmage telling me to be happy. Although now that I think about it, I'm sure there were plenty of 15-year-old ugly sobs.

The funny thing of the situation is that Talmage has actually matured quite a bit in the last few months and is a polite, adorable toddler the majority of the time. He regularly asks me for permission to do things and when that permission is granted, he says "Oh, thank you." He was even sleep-talking last night and remembered to say please.

The drama exists surrounding bedtime. An entire HOUR'S worth of drama each time I put him to bed. The situation is vaguely reminiscent of a Greek tragedy complete with a chorus of wailing and warning in the background. My new plan of attack is to cut back on naptime; maybe he really is ready for a nap only every other day. I'll keep you posted.

As I've been pondering the current situation and analyzing how I've caused it (because I have no doubt the issue lies with me) I thought back to our sleep troubles this past summer. Up to that point, Talmage had been sleeping in a crib. I know, not many almost three year olds make it that long in a crib, but we had no reason to make the switch and there was the added bonus that Talmage was freaked out to climb out of the crib, so, if needed, we could toss him in there and call it good until morning.

I got pregnant last summer and decided it was time to move Talmage to the big boy room. I bought and finished furniture, installed his train table, framed pictures for the wall. It was (and is) adorable. Talmage was thrilled, too, and that excitement kept him sleeping in his room for exactly one week. Then Talmage realized that he could climb out of his bed. Not a big problem, because the consequence was just that he could go back to his crib.

Then he learned that he could climb out of his crib.

Big problem. But no worries; I had read plenty of books on the subject of jack-in-the-box babies and Dr. Marc Weissbluth in Healthy Sleep Habits Happy Child assured me that the Silent Return to Sleep was the way to go. The idea is that you put your child back in bed completly emotionless, giving them no positive or negative reinforcement. He even cited an example of a family who put their child to bed 157 times over a period of two hours. But, miraculously, the child didn't get up the next night.

I put Talmage to bed 623 times from 7:30-11:47.

At that point Tyler recommended pinning him in his crib, and I tell you what, nothing so mildly abusive has ever sounded better. Tyler placed movable fence pieces on top of the crib, tied them to the posts using a variety of Boy Scout knots, and we locked him in. He was asleep moments later. Talmage referred to it as his cage for several months.

And then we locked him in a closet filled with shards of glass and Draino.

p.s. Students and any other BYU faculty, that last sentence was a joke. Totally not true.

Kung Fu Fighting

Talmage helped do some filming for the first time in his life on this one. I'd say he is a natural. Then again, not every videographer has such an impressive subject to film.

As I Was Going Through Pictures From 2008 . . .

You might think this photo merely commemorates a happy moment on the beach. No, this is actually the sign I gave to my family that Tyler and I had decided to remain married despite the $50 I had just spent (that I had permission to spend) on the sundress and hat I am wearing. ON MY BIRTHDAY.



And this is the next day, when Tyler seriously questioned that decision to remain married considering the curls I had made him grow out. They're gone now. Sigh. They were just so soft and bouncy.

Discussing What to Wear to Daddy's School

Talmage: "No pants."
Mama: "Sorry, bud. We need to wear pants. Everyone at Daddy's school wears pants."
Talmage: "Everybody wear underwear at Daddy's school?"
Mama: "Yep. Everybody wears underwear."
Talmage: "Let's check."

Talmage: "Mom, I need to wear a hat."
Mama: "Sure. Do you want to wear your green hat?"
Talmage: "Yes. Everybody see me look cute."

He went to school with boxer briefs, pants, and a green hat. He looked VERY cute. We failed to check to see if everyone else was wearing underwear. I'm going to go ahead and assume yes.

**Note: I'm a little bit in trouble for bumping Tyler's video. Everyone look at that and comment so I can get out of the doghouse.

Monster Trucks

Zipline

This weekend's campout with the scouts turned out to be more fun than I anticipated.

Sharing Cups

Fraught and Faddish

Other possible titles included "Expecting and Elegant," "Teeming and Trendy," "Enciente and Exclusive," and "With Child and With It." And then there was the original title, "Shagged and Chic," but I thought my international audience might be offended.

I'm almost six months pregnant and hadn't bought any maternity clothes. Sure, I was pregnant before, but that was during the summer time, and the floral sundresses aren't cutting it. No maternity clothes severely limited my wardrobe, seeing as my belly is very maternal. And its all happened over the course of two or three weeks. I've watched my midsection expand hourly.

Which pretty much left me with the jeans that I bought to celebrate my postpartum "skinny" body, oversized sweatshirts, and Tyler's basketball shorts.

These items are just fine for walking Lu in the park, but I felt a little underdressed at the BYU Fall Faculty seminar next to the woman wearing black sequins in my jeans and sweatshirt. So I finally trekked to Motherhood Maternity for more professional clothes. I mean, it's hard enough to maintain a professional relationship when I'm only a few years older than the majority of my students, and I'm even younger than them in some cases. And, not to mention, I sit on the table when I teach. I needed the classy clothes.

The adventure began with a trip to Trolley Square. I talked big about how we were just going to one store, Talmage. And did I mention the electric train there? And the elevators? And Talmage, did you know there's a taffy shop in Trolley Square? And, as I would later find out, Motherhood Maternity closed two years ago at Trolley Square, so we will have to go to another store? And it will be on the other side of the valley?

Parenting: 0; Maddening Circumstances that Are Deathnails in Raising a Toddler: 1.

So we continued to The Fashion Place mall ("The" is essential when naming it, as I have learned from radio DJ Chunga's rants on 101.9 The End. It's like when your elders ask how things are at The BYU.). There is a Motherhood Maternity at The Fashion Place. There are also 2,698 kiosks that seem to have quadrupled both in number and aggressiveness since I last went shopping at The Fashion Place mall. I was accosted by cell phone vendors, spinny kaleidoscope sellers, and three generically foreign men racing helicopters and flippy remote controlled cars around their display. One man offered Talmage a chance to drive the car while the other guy tried to sell me the car. "Maybe Santa could bring it," he said. "Santa's a little poor this year," I said. "But your boy really seems to like it," he said. "I really like trips to Hawaii," I said, "but I've got a feeling Santa's not bringing me that, either." "I'll tell you what," he said. "Your boy likes it so much, I'll give it to you for thirty dollars." Without mentioning that I had no idea how much it originally cost, I said, "I'm really not going to buy it." "Fine," he said. "Then your child needs to stop playing with it so someone who is going to buy it can have a turn."

Talmage and I made it to the maternity store. I came prepared with the usual. Puzzles. Coloring books. Regular books. But, of course, none of these compared to the grumpy foreign men and their remote controlled cars outside who had just invited us not to play with their toys. I could have just left, but after I had spent a full two hours getting to this store, I was going to try on every last article of clothing in the store, SO HELP ME. I spent a little more than was planned and ended up with these three dresses, a variety of dressy to casual tops, and some brown dress pants:



Tyler and I spend a good deal of time talking about, worrying about, and obsessing over money, so I was a little worried to discuss the new wardrobe with him. "I spent a lot of money today," I told him. "How much?" he asked. I had been shooting for two hundred dollars and I was much closer to three, so I answered in a meek voice, "Three hundred dollars?"

"OH." he said. "I wasn't going to flip out unless it was over a thousand."

ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS? YOU MEAN THAT'S AN OPTION?!?! I've only been clothes shopping for myself two times in our six year marriage (and the other time was when I was pregnant before) so CLEARLY I have not been taking advantage of this opportunity.

Why I'm Still A Little Bit Five Years Old

It doesn't matter where I am in the house or what time of day it is, when I hear the garbage truck come, I still sprint to the window to watch my trash being dumped.

Satisfying.

A Lion Among Men

So, due to the full life and three courses I've taken a little break from reading. I guess what I'm really saying is that I've taken a break from having a break. Which I don't really like. So I was probably biased in favor of this book because I was excited enough about it that I pushed off being more responsible in order to read.

AND I still got all my grading done.

I was excited about this book because Maguire's earlier book Wicked makes it in the top five of my favorite books I've read in the last couple years. What else would be on that list? Gilead by Marilynne Robinson. Big Rock Candy Mountain by Wallace Stegner. To Kill a Mocking Bird by Harper Lee. These is My Words by Nancy Turner. But Wicked is one book I've been hesitant to recommend to people because there's plenty of material in it that I can see might be offensive. I didn't want to recommend it, because I wouldn't want anyone to feel they shouldn't be offended if they are. I think being offended is a valid reaction.

Anyway, A Lion Among Men is the third book in the Wicked Years, as Maguire has dubbed his series. One reason I love this series is because I am fascinated by the world that Maguire has created, complete with complex political and economic situations and fascinating creatures. I feel the same fascination with Tolkein's Lord of the Rings series. Maguire hasn't invented a new language, but still.

I haven't enjoyed the second or third installment of the series as much as I enjoyed Wicked. But I enjoyed this book enough. Each of the books is a philosophical study of some subject. Wicked is a study of evil; Son of a Witch is a study of identity. A Lion Among Men seems to be a study of fate. The Cowardly Lion is a character who, through his inaction and efforts to just go with the flow, is slighted at every turn and feels a victim of life's circumstances. It isn't until he decides (at the end of the book) to really begin acting--to stop waiting for people to love and accept him and to instead love and accept others--that the narrative hints at a change.

Maguire begins his book quoting Goethe (or at least a quotation attributed to Goethe):

The moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves as well. All sorts of things occur to help on that would never otherwise have occured. A stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen accidents, meetings and material assistance that no one could have dreamed would come their way. Whatever you can do or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now.

I've heard this quote before and I've thought about this theme a lot in my life, so the thesis of the book wasn't life-changing, but I enjoyed hearing it from Maguire's point of view. Maybe that's why I enjoyed Wicked more than this; Maguire gave me more to consider in Wicked than I had considered before. Perhaps that's why I enjoy some books more than others. Hmmm . . . something to think about.

Where I Was When

C. 1984: The Paulsen family brought home the Apple II, our first home computer. This was important because I could then play killer games like Lemonade Stand and Lode Runner most of my childhood, enabling me to be part of the generation that can multitask and figure out Microsoft Excel with no prior instruction.

January 28, 1986: I was in Mrs. Bush's first grade class. We had studied about how we were the space generation and I set a goal that lasted at least 24 hours to be an astronaut. The television was rolled in on its rickety cart and 30 six-year-olds watched as the shuttle magically rose from the ground and we waited for the rocket to fall off the shuttle, as Mrs. Bush assured us would happen. But the rocket didn't fall off. And the shuttle stopped rising. It fell into a big cloud of smoke and Mrs. Bush shut off the TV, informing us with tears in her eyes that we were moving on to more mundane educational tasks.

November 9, 1989: Mrs. Harward's fifth grade class. Again, a rickety TV stand--probably the same one from first grade--was wheeled in. Mrs. Harward attempted in 15 minutes to summarize the Cold War and the civic importance of the Berlin Wall falling down. We watched it for at least an hour, and I remember thinking that everything seemed dark and noisy and dirty.

C. 1994: Teachers in junior high were excited about the Information Super Highway and that you could read a book located in France for your research in Utah. Can you even imagine the research possibilities? (Now I just ban the internet from my student's academic research. So much for the research dream.) But the World Wide Web really became exciting when I opened my first email account, shelleyfanclub@hotmail.com. In honor of my best friend Shelley, OF COURSE. That night I wandered into a chat room for the first and last time. I spent three hours talking to someone in Australia. That was also my first introduction to the incredible time sucker the Internet can be.

October 3, 1995: This time the TV was mounted in the classroom. I was in Mr. Stokoe's history class my sophomore year of high school, and we stopped education to watch O.J. Simpson's acquittal. The boys were very vocal and had apparently strong opinions on the case, but I just wondered why this was so important.

September 11, 2001. I was on my mission. We had just come home for lunch and I answered the phone when Elder Yazzi, the District Leader's companion called me. He told me to sit down. He told me that the Twin Towers were gone, that the White House was gone, that the Pentagon was gone and that 2 million Americans were dead. Maybe more alarming and indicative of the removed-from-the-world and a little bit fanatical state you get in on your mission, it wasn't until Elder Yazzi told me that missionary work was on hold that I really started to grasp the magnitude of the situation. I had been tracting in negative forty degree weather, for heaven's sake. Nothing stopped missionary work. My companion and I spent the rest of the day in our apartment, looking up scriptures about the Apocalypse.

November 4, 2008. I was teaching Tuesday night, and my stalwart students were a little distracted. One of my students gave us an update every twenty minutes on which presidential candidate had won which state, and at the end of the evening (near 10:00) three students received the text "Obama won." I was exhausted when I got home, but Tyler and I watched the news together for another hour.

While I didn't vote for Barrack Obama (I didn't really like McCain, but Obama's health care plan kind of freaks me out) I am overwhelmed at what a historic juncture this is. In my Writing and Rhetoric class we watch Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" speech and I am always amazed at how recent the civil rights movement was. I am proud and a little amazed that the American populace was ready to judge someone "not on the color of their skin, but on the content of their character."

Happy Holidays to You and Yours

This morning Talmage and I got up, found all our snow gear, went for a wintery walk, made snow angels and the beginnings of a snowman, warmed up with hot chocolate (or freezing cold chocolate in Talmage's case--he likes freezing cold things) and did a puzzle. And then we listened to Abba. Cause nothing says welcome to the new season like Dancing Queen.

All in all it's been a pretty good day to be a mother.

Brown Bear, Brown Bear

Cloverfield

**I felt our title needed an explanation so I'm editing Tyler's post. This is our reenactment of the movie Cloverfield, incidentally the movie we watched for Halloween. Basically there was a scary monster who attacked and everyone was very afraid. And then everyone died. The end.

In Tribute to Lu's Enduring Patience (Poor Girl Doesn't Know There's Another One Coming in Four Months)

My favorite part is when she periodically glares at me to say, "You remember when you brought me home and promised to take care of me? And I promised to be your loyal and faithful companion no matter what your beliefs were or what decisions you decided to make? WELL THIS CHILD WASN'T PART OF THAT DEAL."

Wienie Roast

I'd Like to Credit This Moment to Hanes Boxer Briefs, Size XS

"How did Talmage do with his new underwear last night?"
"Perfect. He went four times."
"What a big boy. I'm so proud of him."
"We even went together once."
"You what?"
"We both went in the toilet. At the same time. It was going happen at some time in his life. Somebody had to teach him."
"Boys are different than girls."
"The fundamental problem, though, is that I'm so much taller than him."
"No, the fundamental problem is that you are 28 years old."

To Make My Freshman Roommates Proud (Feuz, I'm Writing in Your General Direction)

Talmage's new favorite word is actually. He uses it independent of proper context. Like, "I want some candy, actually."

Which I'm pretty sure is how I use it. And I say it with a strong Utah accent. Because my name is Laura "Actually, I'm from Salt Lake" Paulsen (Howe).

The Play by Play of Events Leading Up To and Surrounding September 24, 2005

I was going to do this for Talmage's birthday, but, you know, life happened full of details that I can't remember right now and I'm a good month late. But with the current state of pregnancy I'm in right now, I'm worried I'm going to forget my experience of labor with Talmage, so I thought I'd document it in celebration of the three year and roughly one month anniversary of his birth.

Credit and props to Dooce, maybe the most intelligent and witty woman in Salt Lake, for the format of this entry. (The writing teacher in me also feels compelled to tell you that she lifted it from someone else, and rather than link you to the original source, I'm just sending you to Dooce's site. Scandalous.) I fully admit to not being the most intelligent and witty woman in Salt Lake, so I apologize if this is not that intelligent or funny. History, people. I'm documenting it for history.

September 9. 37 weeks pregnant. My doctor (heretofore knows as The Classiest 75 Year Old Woman Alive, Excepting Maybe My Grandma Sara) tells me that I'm dialated to about a 4 and that I'm 60% effaced. She also tells me that this isn't necessarily anything to get excited about and that it could be several more weeks before the baby is ready to come. I of course ignore that last part and plan on having my boy the next day.

September 10. While continuing to tell everyone that I'm still not sure about the name, I buy and paint wooden blocks spelling T-A-L-M-A-G-E. Because while I'm not sure about it, that is clearly the most important part of getting ready for a baby. The Pottery Barn style letters on the wall.

September 11. I have dinner at my mom's house. She asks me if my Master's thesis is written. (It's not, by the way.)

September 12-22. Mom continues to ask if my Master's thesis is written.

September 23 about noon. The Classiest 75 Year Old Woman Alive, Excepting Maybe My Grandma Sara tells me at my 39 week appointment that my body is very ready to have a baby. I thought that's what she told me two weeks earlier. But I have Group B Strep, a problem that can be cleared up easily with a round of penicillin, and so maybe I should go home and talk to my husband about when I want to have a baby. I say, "Leave my husband out of it. I want to have a baby right now." She calls the hospital and they are full, so she tells me to go home and wait for them to call me.

September 23, 1:00 pm. I call my mother and tell her "I'M GOING TO HAVE A BABY TODAY!" She responds, "Sounds like you have a couple of hours. Maybe you should get your thesis written." I passively aggressively ignore her and her misplaced faith in my ability to write roughly 120 pages in two hours and instead clean the fridge.

September 23, 4:00 pm. Fridge is clean. Still waiting for the hospital to call.

September 23, 4:05 pm. I decide that maybe if I stare at the phone it will ring faster.

September 23, 4:06 pm. I intensify the staring.

September 23, 6:00 pm. We take Lu on her last walk as the most cherished member of our family. We get Cafe Rio to go. Still waiting for that phone call.

September 23, 11:00 pm. Still no call.

September 24, 3:00 am. The hospital calls with a bed for me. I tell them I'll be there in 15 minutes. I have a momentary crisis, because I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to wear my LDS underwear to the hospital, so I instead shimmy a lacy black lingerie-style thong up over my pregnant thighs and hitch it up under my swollen and stretch-marked belly.

3:20 am. I arrive at the hospital and they direct me to a room. I change into a hospital gown.

3:24 am. The nurse arrives to hook me up. She spots my lingerie in the corner and very courageously stays composed. I'm sure a career with angry pregnant and soon to not be pregnant women who spend much of the time screeching in pain will do that to you.

4:00 am. They start me on a penicillin drip and hook me up to pitocen.

4:01 am. I ask the nurse if my eyes should be itching and and my lips should be swelling.

4:02 am. The nurse turns down the penicillin.

5:00 am. I feel the first contractions. Kind of a tightening. I decide other women are whiners.

8:00 am. The Classiest 75 Year Old Woman Alive, Excepting Maybe My Grandma Sara shows up to deliver the baby. She is in green scrubs, with navy pumps and a full strand of freshwater pearls. She decides I'm ready and breaks my water.

8:05 am. I came fully planning on an epidural (really, do I need to know what the pioneers experienced when I was born with a full complement of painkillers available?) but the nurse assures me I should wait until I really feel something. Tyler leaves to go get breakfast and I figure I'll wait until he gets back.

8:06 am. The first real contraction hits. I feel something.

8:20 am. How long can it take Tyler to throw down a bowl of Cheerios? I'm ready for a nice breakfast of a stick in the mouth with a side of morphine.

8:40 am. If Tyler isn't back in 5 minutes, not only am I getting an epidural without him, but I am also refusing to change any diapers. For any of our kids. Ever.

8:43 am. Tyler returns. I immediately send him to get the anesthesiologist.

8:53 am. The anesthesiologist enters and begins to analyze my state. On a scale of one to ten I tell him I feel like an eight.

8:54 am. I vomit all over the room. It's a pretty convincing eight.

8:57 am. The epidural is in. I decide drugs are the most glorious invention of mankind. I'm ready for more. Any propositions to ammend the constitution and legalize marajuana? I'm ready to sign.

9:30 am. Tyler and I decide to watch a movie. We pick Top Gun.

11:30 am. Top Gun isn't as good as you remember.

2:00 pm. The Classiest 75 Year Old Woman Alive, Excepting Maybe My Grandma Sara comes in and tells me I'm at a 10 and ready to go. The nurse turns down my epidural so I can feel the contractions to push against.

2:30 pm. I'm sure Tyler could give you more details from this part. I elected not to have a mirror so I could skip over these details. I'm sure you'd like to as well.

3:00 pm (ish). I push Talmage out. He is 8 lbs. 3 oz. and 22 inches long.

3:03 pm. Tyler has taken roughly 163 pictures.

Please Find Me!

Alma 45:18-19

And when Alma had done this he departed out of the land of Zarahemla, as if to go into the land of Melek. And it came to pass that he was never heard of more; as to his death or burial we know not of. Behold, this we know, that he was a righteous man; and the saying went abroad in the church that he was taken up by the Spirit, or buried by the hand of the Lord, even as Moses. But behold, the scriptures saith the Lord took Moses unto himself; and we suppose that he has also received Alma in the spirit, unto himself; therefore, for this cause we know nothing concerning his death and burial.

I feel it is very important that I keep myself from being too righteous, so I never run the risk of having the search and rescue decide I was taken unto the Lord while I'm really wandering aimlessly in the woods.

Poor Alma!

Getcha Head in the Game!

There is no arguing--these are the sexiest legs you will ever see!

Slippery Fish

Thank you, Barbara!

Nine Things I Am Irrationally Vain About

1. My fingers. I have very pretty fingers. Long and lean. I could have been a hand model and made millions.

2. My nailbeds. Totally different than my fingers. When I got a manicure before Homecoming senior year the manicurist told me I'd never need acrylics. And she's right. My nailbeds are beautiful.

3. My salads. I make a killer salad. I'm so obnoxiously proud of this that when someone complimented me about the last salad I made (with yellow peppers instead of red peppers so that combined with the tomatoes the color palette would be aesthetically pleasing and with an array of artfully spread avocados) I said, "Oh this? This isn't even a fancy salad."

4. How big my child is. Talmage is above average. He just dropped from 95th percentile of children to 90th percentile, and I have to say I was a little disappointed. This is a change from when I was panicked that I would have monstrously large children. I was also panicked about having weird looking children because little sister told me my kids were going to be interesting looking because Tyler and I look nothing alike. In your face, Guggy. Talmage is blindingly attractive. And you're going to have children with big heads.

5. How small my feet are. Granted, they're a size 7, but have you ever heard of a woman who's 5'9" with only size 7 feet? I didn't think so.

6. The bibliography at the end of my thesis. It's nine pages long. When I was writing my thesis I used to have a little personal celebration involving Alexander the Grape candies each time I bumped to a new page. It's very pretty.

7. My knowledge of 60s and 70s music. This was my only selling point with guys in high school and college. I was never the cool girl who could play a game of pick-up basketball or throw a football with alarming accuracy. But I knew all about Keith Moon's death from elephant tranquilizers and that all of the Eagles members majored in music in college. And that was COOL. (Didn't get me too far with Tyler since he didn't care about this knowledge in the slightest. Good thing I had more than a working familiarity with Billy Joel.)

8. My ability to pound candy. I can eat a large size bag of Starbursts in one sitting without breaking a sweat.

9. My hair. It's long and thick and fine and, well, maybe that's not irrational. I have GREAT hair.

Sugar House Hill

Talmage the Biker

This video is a contribution from Talmage's great uncle Kevin--and I do mean "great!"

Announcing the Gender of Ebeneezer Ichabod Paulsen Paulsen Howe

It's a boy.

Taken Verbatim From Tyler's Student's Homework

"I pledgealieigens to the flag of the United States of America. And two the repubic with istand on nation to gon whith liberty and justise for all."

Your homework assignment is to use the word pledgealieigens in a sentence today.

Look Alikes

In my life I've only ever been compared to two celebrity look alikes.

One, Helen Hunt:

And two, Leelee Sobieski:

I like to think that both of these comparisons are connected to my full mane of long blond hair and rockin body, but if I'm honest with myself, I'm sure it has more to do with the thick straight eyebrows and bumpy nose. However, Helen Hunt was one of People Magazine's 50 Most Beautiful People in 1998, an issue I didn't just browse through at the supermarket, but purchased and kept as an homage to my vicarious beauty.

Tyler usually gets compared to two actors.

Jim Carrey:

Or Kevin Bacon:

I think the Jim Carrey comparison comes from Tyler's sheer enthusiasm, which if you haven't witnessed in person, I think that a quick glance at the Corny Collins video posted below should give you a pretty accurate picture. He didn't become an elementary school teacher for nothing.

The Kevin Bacon comparison I find a little more alarming, as I affectionately refer to Kevin Bacon as the Scariest Man Alive. I'm not really sure where this comes from, except that I must have some latent Footloose associated nightmare kicking around in my subconcious, similar to the Michael Jackson nightmare I had when I was eight when Michael Jackson kidnapped me and a bunch of other kids in a large white van, taking us to an office space where two of the kids were laminated.

Talmage, however, has found some more creative look-alikes for Tyler. When he was younger, we used to walk by the Abercrombie and Fitch store and Talmage would shout out "Daddy!"

I let him know that Daddy is not quite as ripped as this guy and that he uses significantly less hair gel. And significantly more clothing.

And then, today at the zoo, Talmage looked at this brute and said with confidence, "This guy like Daddy":

I couldn't agree more.

The Insomnia. It's Back.

I suffer from a very select form of insomnia. I call it reverse insomnia.

Other people have a hard time falling asleep. I can fall asleep almost instantly upon lying down. It's when I wake up four or five hours later that's really the issue. Come two or three in the morning when I can't fall back asleep is the highly-irritating, insanity-inducing problem.

This is another condition (and I mean that in the literal, clinical sense) that I inherited from my father. I add it to the list with the poor dressing, the incessant historical marker reading, and the nose (which my Great Aunt Bergliot informed me this weekend actually originated with my Grandpa Finn. I knew the Norwegians were involved somehow). My dad deals with the issue by going running--not because it helps him sleep, but because you need something to do or else you might go crazy. I once looked at a list of his GPS clocked runs. This is information from the GPS system Dad attaches to his wrist that clocks his distance, calculates his speed at all times, and is downloadable to a satellite map to track his route. (This is opposed to the GPS system that he attaches to his car so he can see where he's going as he's going there: "Look, Laura! You can see my digital car on I-215 heading south. No, wait; my digital car is turning southwest now. Isn't that helpful?" Almost as helpful as noticing that your actual car on the actual freeway is turning right.) The GPS system, in addition to recording information to make a pretty map of his runs up the canyon, also saves the time he did these runs. And the majority of them happen at 2:45 AM.

I told him that it's very difficult to go back to sleep when you're outside in the cold running around the neighborhood. The front yards on Twinbrook St aren't very conducive to early morning napping, particularly when you're the bishop of Twinbrook St. The Petersons probably won't look at it too favorably when they wonder, "Who's that homeless guy in the red sweatsuit with socks on his hands sleeping in the driveway? Oh wait, that's just Bishop Paulsen."

I'm pretty sure he thought I was funny.

I deal with my reverse insomnia the way the Internet taught me to. One, I get out of bed and go sleep on the couch. Staying in bed just trains your body not to sleep when its in bed. Two, I don't (or shouldn't) read in bed. Same thing--trains your body that your bed is not for sleeping. Three, I don't get pregnant (and this is one I just picked up on my own) because pregnancy wakes you up all the time, what with the discomfort and the lack of breathing and the frequent unavoidable urination, giving your mind greater amount of time in which to keep you from going back to sleep.

Because that's really the problem. My mind. I can't turn it off. Not like in the Einstein couldn't stop thinking because of all the important discoveries he had to make, unless you consider these things that occupied my mind in the last hour vitally important (and trust me, my mind thinks they are VITALLY IMPORTANT, enough to keep me awake thinking about them for hours):

1. Did I shut the car windows on the car before I went to bed? Because the car smelled like pizza and it would maybe be a good thing if I didn't do it, unless it rains like it did last night, in which case it would be a very, very bad thing.
2. What am I going to teach on Thursday?
3. Are my students nervous for the test they have tomorrow? Are my other students ready with their drafts for tomorrow? Are they awake preparing these things for tomorrow?
4. I forgot to buy ginger.
5. Are those car windows still open?
6. Tyler is very large. He takes up a large portion of the bed. Next time I get married, that husband (the one whose hand I will only hold and who I will only very occasionally kiss) will be 5'2".
7. "And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make." What does that mean? Is that a cheesy Paul lyric or a drug-induced John lyric?
8. Due to the pregnancy, I'm breaking out like a fifteen year old teenager. Maybe I can go a whole week without popping this zit on my forehead. Yeah, never going to happen.
9. What about those car windows?

And finally,

10. This blog entry. Which meant I had to get up and write it. Feel free to notice the time it's posted. Also feel free to forgive me for any lack of coherency.

And feel free not to point out how, like running, it's very difficult to go back to sleep when you're typing at the computer.