Documented Child Abuse: Case #12348684 Exhibit A

Victim is 32 mos old, not physically disabled, not developmentally disabled. Primary language spoken in home: English. Ethnicity: Caucasian. Nationality: American, but 1/4 Canadian. Reporting party witnessed all incidents.

A: Victim fell down esclator after climbing half-way up. Upon questioning, the victim remarks of the incident: "Bounce, bounce . . . Mom--no catch."
B, C, and D: Victim face-planted running down a trail chasing OCD dog who was chasing her ball. Upon questioning, the victim remarks of the incident, "BOOM!"
E: Victim was running away from the reporting party and didn't see the low-wall before he ran off it.
F: Victim dropped large picture book on his toe. After the incident, victim displays a disdain for The Polar Express.

You See That Profile? That's the Profile That Says "I'm Prettier Than All the Other Dogs, Because That's What the Other Dog Owners Gush."

I haven't ever posted about my dog. That is because I started this blog when I was a mother, not three years ago, when I was a Lunatic Dog-Owner Who Stopped This Short of Dressing Her Dog in People Clothes.

My dog's name is Lu. Really, we don't know how to spell that, but I assure you, it is a girl dog name, short for Louisa, not a boy dog name, short for Louis. The cashier at Petsmart said "My [boy] dog's name is Lu, too, short for Lucifer!" Her name is Lu because Tyler had a crazy obsession with the name Lu and was ready to name our first-begotten-she-child Lu (this probably should have been the first red flag of a revolting name fetish that became all too apparent when he suggested Ebeneezer as an appropriate first-begotten-he-child name. "Listen to how cool that sounds, Laura. Ebeneezer Howe."). I wasn't convinced. I was even less convinced when he pulled the name Luella off my family history chart. I told him, "If we name our daughter Luella, we might as well name her Luella Mae Sue and plan on her marrying Cletus Homer Jefferson. If we ever get a dog, we can name the dog Lu." Done and done.

I first realized What A Big Part of the Family Lu Is when she needed surgery on her leg at 7 months old. They tell you golden retrievers are gentle and loving and great with kids, but they don't tell you that golden retrievers come with all sorts of genetic joint problems. Lu was born with elbow displasia, meaning her elbow didn't fit together right, making her lame. It's difficult to have the conversation, "How much are we going to spend on a dog?" at any time, but that conversation had a pretty bleak outlook when happening between a graduate student, not really making any money, and a public educator only on step 2 of his public educator's salary. I'm not sure I've properly thanked my in-laws for making her arthroscopic surgery a possibility, and I still won't disclose to my dog-hating parents exactly how much we spent on the dog.

Talmage was born when Lu was a year old. I didn't love Lu any less when Talmage was born; I just started loving Talmage a lot more. But I realized how big a part of my life she still was when she got caught in a current swimming in a bloated spring-runoff river. I realized she wasn't going to make it back to shore and glimpsed the waterfall in the distance. I did stop to take infant Talmage off my back, but I was ready to jump in that river for my girl. It's probably fortunate that she had already gone over the waterfall by the time I looked back up, but the next several minutes before she turned up 20 meters downstream were almost as frightening as Talmage's five minute febrile seizure.

Last night I came home late from book club. The house was dark, and Talmage and Tyler were both asleep. I opened the door and kicked off my shoes when Lu wandered sleepily down the hall. I stopped to pet her, but she looked at me with eyes that said, "Thanks for the effort but I'm really tired. I just wanted to make sure your home and okay. Everything good? Great, well I'm going back to bed."

She's my best girl.

You Should Never Begin a Sales Pitch With "So, I Can't Help But Notice Your Windows Look Filthy."

We face east-west. That's my excuse.

Well, I Think We Can Safely Say He's Heterosexual

I was wearing a gray hoodie. Oversized for optimal lounging. Zip-up front.

Talmage wanted the front zipped down. I wanted it up. Talmage continued to want it zipped down. I continued to want it up. Talmage insisted it be zipped down. I insisted it be up.

"Stop, Mom," he said, disgusted and exasperated. "Talm like boobs."

The Little Prince

A classic.

I studied this book in my French 201 class shortly after Tyler left on his mission. It was a rather lonely time in my life. I had more first dates that summer than I ever had before, but it was a string of guys that I had no interest in, including Plaid Pants Man (he wore plaid pants with a purpose--throwing off the cultural hegemony of BYU), 31-year-old man (Weren't we in a class together five years ago? Only if you were in Mrs. Bagnell's ninth grade English.), and Nameless Man (Are you really trying to hold my hand when I can't remember your name?).

I was lonely.

So Saint-Exupery's thoughts on friendship and creating ties held particular meaning for me. In fact, I received an A- on my final exam in which we had to expound upon a particular passage. I wrote a couple pages about Tyler and the ties we had created the semester before. My instructor's comments were "Impeccable French, but I don't think this has anything to do with The Little Prince."

I've been thinking about friendship again and I again loved the story of the fox. The Little Prince wants to find a friend, and the fox explains that friendship takes time and effort and that sometimes friendship is painful. But the value of friendship, the fox explains, is worthwhile:

My life is monotonous. I hunt chickens; people hunt me. All chickens are just alike, and all men are just alike. So I'm rather bored. But if you tame me, my life will be filled with sunshine. I'll know the sound of footsteps that will be different from all the rest. Other footsteps send me back underground. Yours will call me out of my burrow like music. And then, look! You see the wheat fields over there? I don't eat bread. For me wheat is of no use whatever. Wheat fields say nothing to me. Which is sad. But you have hair the color of gold. So it will be wonderful, once you've tamed me! The wheat, which is golden, will remind me of you. And I'll love the sound of the wind in the wheat . . .

I'm in a time in my life which is really pretty selfish. I guess college was maybe more selfish; and it's hard to say it's selfish when being a mother is a pretty enormous gift of self. But now that I'm kind of in the groove of motherhood, I again have self left to give. But I get in my own life and often it's easier to just live rather than make the effort to create ties with those around me. I think I'm doing better than I was a couple of years ago. But friends are worth it, "because of the color of the wheat."

If It Doesn't Die by the Time He's Five, I Guess Kindergarten Will Crush it Out of Him

I gave Talmage the option between the Cars cups and the Nemo cups. He chose the Disney Princess cups.

"Well, of course!" explained Tyler. "Ariel's HOT."

Summer Olympics

Loving Long Locks (She's Been Blaming it on Dad for Years. But I Know Who Never Let Me Cut My Hair.)

My parents got engaged in spring of 1970. The Vietnam War was raging, and my dad enlisted in the National Guard in the summer of 1970. He had served a mission in Brazil and was assigned to the Special Intelligence Language division speaking Portuguese on the off-chance that the war expanded to include Portugal or Brazil. His major offensive was launched on a travel agency in L.A. They confiscated posters advertising getaways to Rio.

While on duty, my dad wrote The Most Romantic Letter Ever Written to his fiance, Mom. Perhaps I should caps the letter, so as to emphasize how truly, it was THE MOST ROMANTIC LETTER EVER WRITTEN. It included phrases like "I don't have much to say, except I love and need you. That need is very real, as is the love. I honestly think that I would do most anything for you; I would do anything that you asked me to do." Considering it was coming from an intelligent (albeit snarky) attractive man whose dimples showed even in his serious army photo and who was honorably serving his country, an engineer who used semicolons correctly FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE, my mom might have considered herself a pretty lucky gal.

Her only feeling, however, upon seeing him that summer was a loss for the lovely blond Norwegian locks that he sheared off recruit style. She later told me, with a tone one might use to proclaim their faith in religion, "I almost didn't marry him."

I remembered this story today as I took Talmage over to see his Nana. Talmage bonked his forehead and I cut his hair short to show off his battle-wound (plus, the hair kept getting stuck in the owey). "You gave him a menopause haircut!" she exclaimed. But she really revealed her true feelings when she said, "I think he's gained weight. Oh no, it's just that terrible haircut."

Duh, Da, Duh, DAAA!

We're off to see Indiana Jones. And if you don't think that's an event at our house, you clearly don't know A. Tyler Howe.

Tal and Stockton, Out On the Town

I thought this picture had a kind of babies-playing-saxophones appeal to it. It will be less cute when these boys turn 15, steal Uncle Clark's Nissan Z, and total it.

Chicks Dig Scars

So, Talmage has been a sweetheart through the whole back injury. Mostly. And when I say only mostly, it's because he's realized that Mom can't chase him so it makes getaways ridiculously easy.

The most recent getaway happened at the Gateway, and he was half-way up the escalator before he triumphantly turned to flaunt his success. The problem with flaunting, however, is that it's usually accompanied by over-exuberance, which isn't very good for balance. I didn't make it to him before he tumbled down the escalator. "Don't worry," I later told my dad. "He only bounced once."

I vacillated all night about whether to get him stitches and continued to vacillate my way into the Instacare. Only after the nurse detailed the trauma he'd endure did I decide to go for the Superglue method: 1) hold head wound together, and 2) Superglue it.

I think the only thing that would have made it tougher was if we'd just decided to duct tape the thing. Maybe next time . . .

Acceptance Speech (I'm Having Regrets About the Last Entry. Does Anyone Know How Searchable "Chad Gilbert on Howe Thoughts.Com" is on Google?)

See how straight and tall he's standing? That's me.

I'm just so flattered and honored by the opportunity to get out of bed, and I have so many people to thank.

First, sister-in-law Maquel. Thank you for volunteering to help before Tyler even asked. Thank you for adopting my son and making him part of your life. Thank you for the lunch-in-bed Cafe Rio. Single soft taco never tasted so good.

Also to Lori, my other sister-in-law. Thank you for taking Talmage yesterday and for the delicious spaghetti dinner. And thank you for leaving me a cell phone so that if I fell out of bed and died, I'd be able to inform someone that I fell out of bed and died. Thank you for calling and checking up on me.

I'd like to especially thank the tweezers, razor, Paul Mitchell shampoo, Pantene conditioner, brush, blowdryer, Dove soap, Crest tooth paste (yes, I've turned my back on Colgate. Let's not talk about it), Oral-B toothbrush, and Secret deoderant that helped on the road back to a full and healthy relationship with my personal hygiene. When I brushed mascara across my eyelashes, I felt a new sense of wonderment and discovery.

Thank you to mother-in-law for more delicious Cafe Rio and for mother's day feast.

Thank you to father-in-law for coming over to give me a blessing while my muscles were uncontrollably spasming. And for recommending Lortab.

Thank you to Lortab. I never would have made it through Sunday without you.

Thank you to my parents for bringing me chicken. You know, there's very little chicken won't solve. Thanks to Mama for researching cures for me. Thanks to BYU library computer training lady for teaching Mama to research journals.

Thanks to Brother Taylor who heroically stepped in at the eleventh hour to teach my gospel doctrine lesson. I heard it was phenomenal.

Thank you Flo, relief society president extraordinaire who BROUGHT ME DINNER HERSELF. I thought that was the point of being the relief society president; you got to delegate such things. But the pork was scrumptious.

Thank you to Talmage who has been remarkably understanding of this whole situation. He loves getting bounced between his cousins' houses.

Thank you to dooce.com whose witty writing kept me going through many, many hours.

Thank you to Austenland, The Host, Thoughts On a Grasshopper, and Rough Stone Rolling, all books read while in bed.

Thank you to 8.5 months pregnant hip-pain, hip-pain that I naively thought only happened when you were 8.5 months pregnant. That, more than a feeling of back wellness or preparedness, got me out of bed.

Thanks most of all to Tyler, who has been an AMAZING single parent while making sure I get three square meals a day. Just think, most of you only got breakfast in bed on Mother's Day.

Thanks to everyone who wished me kind thoughts. This one's for you!

Men I Have Loved Not Platonically, From Crushing From Afar to Loving Passionately (In Roughly Chronological Order)

1. Colby Healey Colby and I enjoyed a passionate four-year-old affair, until I consulted with Kelsey and Shelley and we found out he was three timing us.
2. Nik English Lasted from ages four to seven. Nik gave me a pearl necklace when I was five. He is now six inches shorter than me.
3. Scott Kesten and Dustin Goodrich I list them together because when Mrs. Bush's first grade class found out I had a crush on Scott, I immediately traded my affections for Dustin. Apparently they were interchangeable.
4. Robbie Hinkley The boy was an ARTIST.
5. Mike Ward This one was short-lived. We were in sixth grade. We used to chase each other around the playground. IN SIXTH GRADE. If that's not passion, I don't know what is.
6. Jake Hansen
7. Jake Alder I'm pretty sure this kid still wouldn't know who I am, but when we hit Jr. High and the three elementary schools in the area combined, man this was the best new thing around.
7. Ethan Hawke Yeah, I know he's a has-been film star. But I liked the hair. And I'm proud of it.
7b. Thanks to Abi who pointed out that I forgot Colter Hammer. He was kind of a joint crush by all the girls because he was a hottie. Still is.
8. Travis Poulson
9. J.C. Forrester Even his name sounded like he belonged in a boy band.
9b. Sister pointed out that I forgot Armando Calderon. Which is a shame since I crushed on him for most of Jr. High. I was pretty sure he was going to be my first kiss. He wasn't though. He does give Fabricio Lustozo a run for his money for most Latin sounding crush. Except that Fabricio really was Brazilian.
10. Jake Poulsen This was a kid who I met on a giddy girl getaway in a hot tub at the Homestead resort. He was seventeen. I was fourteen, but I lied and said I was sixteen. I'm pretty sure he saw through me.
11. Chad Gilbert
12. Travis the senior He was a senior. I was a sophomore. Need I say more?
13. Paul Anderton It only lasted for about 2.5 minutes while we were dancing together at the New Year's Eve dance, but I felt some passion.
14. That one kid at the pool in St. George. We shared a moment.
15. Chad Condie's cousin.
16. Chad Condie's friend (Zach something?)
17. Chad Condie
18. Harte Nielson
19. Sid Lot
20. Tom Brinton
21. Ace Tanner The only boy I've ever really asked on a first date. He said I was an amazing hugger. And I am.
22. That one kid who won all the golf tournaments. Carl Jensen. I told him "Man, if you didn't already have a girlfriend, I would so be into you." Smooth, eh?
23. Fabricio Lustozo How many Americans have someone that Latin in their list?
24. Tyler Howe Yes, this is husband. But since he didn't kiss me before leaving for Argentina, I felt perfectly free to continue crushing.
25. That one kid who I snuggled with by the fire. I don't know his name but I know he was older. And man was he sexy.
26. Joe Plicka This only lasted a couple days. So negligible that when I continued hanging out with him and he asked if I ever had a crush on him I said no. And felt good about it.
27. Brett from Jerusalem. Really, who didn't?
28. Dave Riding He played with my hair while we studied and everyone kind of expected us to date. But I think we both kind of irritated each other. And we both ended up marrying the people we were writing to.
29. Erik Condon Sarah, it was brief, I tell ya, BRIEF. But he was such a gentleman.
30. Tom from Writing Fellows. Should I mention that the last three are all tall, skinny, with dark curly hair?
31 and forever. Husband The tallest, skinniest, curliest, sexiest man of them all.

Thoughts of a Grasshopper

The woman in the ward with the book club calling was released and no one has replaced her. So my lovely sister-in-law asked if I would pick a book and lead a discussion for the month of May/June.

I was hesitant. This is the book club not just with members of the ward in it, but the book club sponsored by the ward. The one that's announced in the relief society newsletter. There are many books that I feel perfectly comfortable reading that would offend many people, and while I don't think it's a bad thing to get everyone thinking, I also think church sponsored activities should be a comfortable place for people to create meaning as a collective and I don't think people can do that when offended. So, does the church sponsored book club read things only published by Deseret Book? Well, my favorite most meaningful books were not published by Deseret Book. It's a tricky situation, one I've always just avoided by not being involved in the ward book group.

I did tell Lori yes and decided to play it safe by recommending the one book published by Deseret Book that I love, Thoughts of a Grasshopper by Louise Plummer. Of course, I found out later, it's out of print. But I found it for $2.07 from a used bookseller. I hope other members of the ward can find it, too.

My collection of favorite thoughts from Plummer's collection of her own thoughts:

In response to the fable of the ants and the grasshopper, wherein the busy organized ants have spent all summer preparing for the winter while the sometimes chaotic ant dances the summer away, only to die when the cold hits: "I am a grasshopper. I dance in elevators. [...] It takes me a full day to dismantle my Christmas tree because I dress up in the decorations. [...] I have never prepared for winter or the Apocalypse. [...] I live in a metaphorical world. I read and write fiction. I draw pictures."

When I was fourteen (when I first read this book) I wanted to tear my shirt Captain Moroni style and write that on it.

In her written audition for a chorus: "First I shall sing in my lower range beginning at middle C and ending with low B, beyond which I just grunt. Here goes: La La La La La La La La La
Now for my upper range--beginning a middle C and moving up: La La
As you can see, I have the range of Nancy Sinatra."

On revealing that families and wards and stakes and entire religions are not perfect and we shouldn't pretend that they are: "[O]ne sunny afternoon in Saint Paul, Minnesota, that same [son] lunged at me, grasped me around the throat in a headlock, pulled me to the floor, and said, strangling me, 'Don't tell me what to do, or I'll kill you. Do you hear me? I'll kill you.' [...] That afternoon, even now, stands out as the most humiliating day of my life. I had earned all the individual awards. I had had three years of perfect attendance in Mutual, sacrament, and Sunday School meetings. [...] Sometimes, living in a family means suffering."

And I felt renewed enthusiasm for this blog when reading her entry on keeping journals: "Writing a journal is a way of making a mark in the world." So that's what I'm doing. Making a mark. Forgive me for making it so publicly.

The Host

Whew!

Well, after having a crazy obsession with the Twilight series last fall that I'm only mildly embarrassed about, I did look forward to The Host. And my conclusion? Stephenie Meyer's writing has improved.

Not that I thought Twilight was poorly written. In fact, I got in several arguments about how Twilight wasn't merely a cheap thrill wherein I defended her writing, citing her dialogue and characters (are we sensing a trend here? apparently I like dialogue and characters) as proof of solid writing.

I don't even feel defensive about this one. Twilight was the first thing she had written after many years of mommy brain. She has matured. And retained the witty dialogue and vivid characters.

There is much more that I could say about this book and the thoughts it sparked, but right now I'm thinking about how critiquing is much easier than creating. I am a professional critic. I'm an art historian. When I tell strangers that, they ask me, "What art do you do?" Well, the honest answer to that is that I doodle. I don't create any art, I critique art. When I'm feeling snide I call it analyze. My whole thesis was about how several exhibitions created these false images of American Indians, but when it came to suggesting how to correct that, my own suggestion was pretty lame. I don't write, I critique writing. Is that the easy way out? While I can sit here (well, lie here--the back's still bugging me) and make condescending comments about how Stephenie Meyer has matured as a writer, if I get right down to it I don't think I could ever have the fortitude or creativity or even talent to write the first book.

I feel a little more like I create when I teach--I create situations for valuable thought and discussion when I teach about writing or art. I'm creating a bit on this blog. I'm creating a little boy (while he's creating a mother).

Okay, I guess I don't just critique art. I help create meaning through my analysis. I guess that's why I think of myself as a historian and not a critic. And hopefully I'm adding to what the books mean by thinking about them out loud on this blog.

I really enjoyed The Host. I really admire Stephenie Meyer.

Austenland

"So you know the books are the boring part of your blog and you're burying a perfectly good video by posting about one."

Where's the support, huh? Of course I know people skip over my book reviews. I post them for me, not for the audience. So there.

Actually Tyler's been the most amazing supportive husband and single-dad while I've been bed-ridden that I can imagine. I just finished 48 hours in this bed and I'm in for at least another 24 more. I couldn't do it without husband.

Austenland is delightful. It's just the book I'd recommend to anyone in a drug-induced haze.

I've never felt the type of satisfaction that I get after watching a good quality Meg Ryan chick-flick (the Nora Ephron kind, not the reformed sexy kind) with a book like I did after reading Austenland. Maybe that's because I read it in the same amount of time that it takes to watch a good quality Meg Ryan chick-flick. I was thoroughly entertained from beginning to end, laughed through the drug-induced haze the entire time, and enjoyed well-written dialogue throughout.

Actually, this has been my favorite Shannon Hale novel.

Happy Mommy's Day

Hopped Up on Lortab. Don't Hold Me Accountable for Anything That Follows.

So, my back's out again. Only this time it's worse. Much worse.

But I'd like to laud the experience of pain-killing narcotics. I just composed a blog entry in my head about how different the leaves outside my window look at 12:05 pm from 6:02 am. It was genius, I tell ya. GENIUS. And those Lennon composed Beatles songs are starting to make sense.

Raising a Two-and-a-Half Year Old. Now That's Good Comedy.

Wondering about the vulcan mind meld Talmage was inflicting on me, Tal and I had the following exchange:

Me: Hey Tal, what are you doing?

Talmage (with obvious strain): Push . . . workin hard . . . HEAD OFF!

Me: You're trying to push my head off?

Talmage (with great disappointment): Yeah. Stuck.

It's All About the Pomp

"The masters' gown sleeve is oblong and, though the base of the sleeve hangs down in the typical manner, it is "square cut" at the rear part of the oblong shape. The Code calls for the shell material of the hood to match the robe, and for the color to be black regardless of the color of the robe being worn. The interior lining - generally silk - displays the colors of the institution from which the wearer received the degree, in a pattern prescribed by it (usually, if more than one color is used, chevrons or equal divisions). The opening of the hood is trimmed in velvet or velveteen."

Tyler: What the heck are these sleeves?

Laura: Pomp, Tyler, pomp.

Tyler: It's all about the pomp, huh?

Laura: It's all about the pomp.

Tyler very proudly graduated from SUU with his masters degree. He didn't want to go to it, as he's planning on getting a second masters starting in a year or two, but I'm a firm believer that celebration is important. I guess that's what happens when you're the daughter of a folklorist; you believe in rites of passage.

Talmage and I met Tyler as he marched across campus. Talmage was thrilled that his Daddy was marching one by one, just like the ants in his most recent favorite song.





We stayed with him most of the way. Everyone thought Talmage and I were crazy for entering the stadium right before the ceremony began ("Portal K's going to be your best shot, if you can find a seat at all") But I knew we weren't going to be seated for long. Tyler on the other hand got primo seating--front and center.



Apparently it was a wonderful commencement, with Mario Capecchi, University of Utah professor and recent recipient of the Nobel Prize addressing the graduates. Talmage and I didn't hear it, however. This is what we did instead.

I'm very proud of my husband. It's been a busy couple of years, what with teaching, tutoring, photography, and going to school. He has excelled in all of these areas, and he has most excelled at being a husband and father with the minimal time that he has. He has slept in tents in the nursery, worn headlamps under the covers reading bedtime stories, and danced the chicken dance in the front room. Congratulations, Tyler. I love you.

On a related note, don't you think Tyler's recent curls are adorable?

2 Years, 7 Months, and 13 Days Past September 24, 2005

Dear Talmage:

There is a lot of anger in our relationship. It's of an intensity that I naively thought wouldn't appear until you were at least 16. You regularly shout at me "Don't do that!" and then furrow your eyebrows while channeling the emotion of Darth Vader after the destruction of the death star. Then I begin to wince, because I'm bracing for your alarmingly powerful toddler smack across the side of my face.

Not that I'm blaming this entirely on you. I'm equally if not more angry. So far, I've been able to keep it inside, but I've turned into a life-size can of root beer that's been shaken to the point that the carbonation is about to explode, spouting raw, unadulterated, molten anger all over the room. Yesterday, after you punched me twice, you poured a cup of water on an innocent girl at the Children's Museum and we left immediately, you screaming at a decibel equaled only by Chuck Yeager breaking the sound barrier and me very conspicuously wailing with sobs that racked my chest. I'm pretty sure other people noticed.

So we go on. You continually testing me, me continually harping on you. "We don't write on the table with a Sharpie, Talmage." "We don't try to put our left foot through the TV screen, Talmage." "We don't headbutt our mothers so that blood spills out of their noses like Niagara Falls, Talmage." I have become a constant stream of "We don'ts." There is just so much that we don't.

So, I'd like to take this opportunity to give you a we do. We do love Talmage very, very much. It's a shame that you're upstairs asleep right now (yes, you lost books before your nap for the third day in a row) and can't hear or fully comprehend the depth of that love and affection.

Before I had you, I was a little nervous about being a mother. I wanted to be a mother, but I enjoyed researching and working so much that I was nervous to begin what I saw as the monotony of motherhood. I was worried I had twenty stir-crazy years ahead of me. I needn't have worried. I didn't count on the overwhelming love that filled me when you graced your Daddy and me at your arrival. You were 22 inches of slimy, screaming loveliness. I spent hours (literally hours--I timed it) just looking at you. When we got out of the hospital, you had jaundice, and you had to sleep in a ultraviolet suitcase to lower the bilirubin. You could only come out to nurse, and I was terribly lonesome for you when I couldn't hold you.

I thought of that this morning while I was snuggling with you. We haven't spent much of your life snuggling--you've been much too busy for that--but today you woke up at 5:30 and I told you it was still nighttime. "Sun sleep?" you asked. "Yep," I responded. "Come in Mommy and Daddy's bed." You curled up on my arm and I kissed your forehead. You looked up, grabbed my face with both pudgy hands and pulled me to you as you smacked my lips.

I love you, Talmage. I love that you play the church organ as the bishop conducts the meetings. I love that you like to hide and shout "Boo!" when I come in the room. I love that you make incredible connections between something you see today and something that you saw five months ago. I love the insane quantities of milk you consume. I love that you live in constant fear of going to bed. I love that you identify everyone in the world in terms of daddy's friends, mommy's friends, and Talm's friends. I love you.

And when your 16, you can read this letter. It will be the same message, different stories.

Love,

Mama

The Sixth Wife

Hmm . . . mediocre at best.

You know you've entered a different genre of literature when the last book you read was printed in 10 point font and the new book is in 16.

I picked up this book because we were leaving town to go to Tyler's graduation in Cedar City and it was the first book that grabbed my attention on the recommended reading rack at the library.

The author includes a response to potential criticism at the end, which I think is a little defensive. She brings up that she didn't plan on writing historical fiction, because to her, historical fiction was filled will "prithee" and heaving bosoms. She therefore updates the language, which I'm not against. But her updating is so silly--at one point one character told another, "Don't bite my head off"--that it's not fun to read. In general, the dialogue seemed stilted and the descriptions pointless. Cathy, the narrator describes her boy: "Harry seems so considered but actually he's everything, all things, an not least hot-headed: it's all in Harry if you only know where to look or wait long enough." What on earth does that mean? As far as heaving bosoms go, there weren't specific bosoms but there was plenty of heaving.

My biggest complaint was about the characters. The author claims "Character is what I go for, both as a reader and a writer. My characters have to be more than the stuffing for some eye-catching dress. They have to feel real: really, really, real." I felt her characters were mere caricatures of the historical people they were. I didn't really sense any depth from them as actual people.

However, I've always had a hard time keeping the generations of Tudors straight and now they're a little more clear.

Talmage A to Z

For those of you who wish a translation:

ah nuts . . . I did something, Arthur, battery, big full (as in "I would like a drink from the big full milk, not the gallon that's half-way gone. And while we're at it, I would like you to pour my cup big full, too"), blow-dryer, Cafe Rio, candy, car, careful, church, Clark, clean up, close to being done (i.e. don't you even think about making me go to bed because I am very close to being done with whatever I'm doing right now), come on, cookie, dangerous, delicious, done, don't do that, downstairs, dresser, drink of milk, eight more (eight is Talmage's favorite number. And who wouldn't want eight more of anything?), elephant, eyeball, fashion show, fireplace, fridge, funny, giant, go away Dad, Grandma Ramona, happy birthday, heat on, hop down, jammies, keys, kiss, last, Laura, little bit, lizard, Lu (our dog), Luke, Mama Kell (referring to Aunt Maquel), Missa, missing, motorcycle, nervous, one more (usually a consolation when he doesn't get eight more), ouch, picture, plane, poke, popsicle (literally, I would like one of the popsicles in the fridge right now), puppy dog, remote control, ribbit, right back, shoot, show, sky, sorry, stay here, Talm's friend, Tawny, teacher, tricky, try it, TV, up in the sky, vroom, warm up, watch out, working hard, yucky

The Edge of Sadness

Yesterday I served at the cannery on a welfare assignment. We were making jam. My job was to mix 5.5 lbs of pectin with 7 lbs of citric acid, later to be mixed with 75 lbs of sugar. I lifted a 20-30 lbs bag of citric acid at one point and felt a strange twitching in my back. But being the fairly athletic almost 28 year old that I am, I felt no compulsion to stop. I later switched jobs and, for the next 2.5 hours, put glass jars onto a rotating wheel that would later be filled with jam, a motion not unlike ironing or loading a dishwasher ("Whatever you do," my mom would later tell me, "DO NOT IRON OR LOAD A DISHWASHER!") By the time I headed home I could barely move, much less pick up Talmage.

So, thanks to Tyler who took off work today, I have been FLAT on my BACK. I know that's a cute colloquial saying, but I promise you, I mean that quite literally. Flat on my back. At 2:00 in the morning, lying flat seems overwhelmingly tedious and you try to roll to one side or the other. Bad decision. Much better to remain flat.

So, in the last 24 hours, I have read The Edge Of Sadness by Edwin O'Connor. It was a beautiful book and the last 24 hours have been filled with both anguish and joy. Even more so than they would have been with a broken back.

I should probably mention that The Edge Of Sadness is precisely the kind of book that I LOVE that has no plot and rich character development. I.e. I won't be recommending this to Tyler any time soon. The book makes Wallace Stegner novels seem action-packed.

Some of my very most favorite narrators, including John Ames in Marilynne Robinson's Gilead and Luke Ripley in Andre Dubus' "A Father's Story" are priests. Actually I'm not sure Luke Ripley is a priest, now that I think about it, but he seems like one. In any case, I'm going to add Hugh Kennedy as a favorite priestly narrator. I think that I trust them more, they seem very wise, and whatever growth or knowledge they gain seems very sincere.

The book chronicled the decay of robust Catholicism during the 1950's. Granted, I know nothing about the decay of robust Catholicism during the 1950's. But in the end, the seeds for renewal were located within the Catholic church. They consisted of a quiet and meditative daily connection to God and an active, loving outreach to individuals. I DO know about times when my commitment to God begins to decay, and I agree with the solution that O'Connor offers.

Charlie Carmody, one of the main antagonists? characters? in the novel is humorously curmudgeony. But not quaintly curmudgeony. He really is quite manipulative and down-right mean at times. But O'Connor points out at one point that while humanity is often carelessly cruel, that same humanity is the first to help when needed. He says, "We all share in a shattering duality [...]. And while all this results in meanness and bitterness and savagery enough [...] the essential goodness of man does break through [...] [It] is in the long succession of these small, redemptive instants, just as much as in the magnificence of heroes, that the meaning and the glory of man is revealed."

I like that thought.

Well, now what do I read next? I know that the reading list says I am "currently reading" Little Women and have been for quite some time, but Little Women is the novel I listen to while running. You do the math.