When I Was Three All I Talked About Was My Little Pony

There's a lot of talk of death around here. And dying. And being dead. And also shooter guns.

This talk used to bother me a lot. Talmage was my little itty-bitty baby boy, the little baby who used to run his fingers through my hair when I fed him, the little baby who used to climb on my lap to tell me about his owies, the little baby who curled up into my side when we read books, the little baby who wanted channies and who referred to himself exclusively in the third person. I wanted no part of "Talm like guns, yep!"

I especially had a hard time when my little itty-bitty baby boy sat in the backseat and improvised a gun with his finger. "KILL, KILL, KILL!" he'd say as he massacred the cars who passed us on the highway. This lead to our banning the word kill in our house and replacing it with cream. It's slightly less offensive when your little baby boy says "CREAM, CREAM, CREAM!" as he slaughters unsuspecting passing vehicles with his index finger.

Then Asher was born.

My sister-in-law Barbara took Talmage for a week when Asher was born. Yes, she should be nominated for Aunt Of The Year. When Talmage returned to our house, he had roughly quadrupled in size, his torso alone generating its own weather system. My little itty-bitty baby boy was HUGE.

Case in point: in the year leading up to Asher's birth we worked quite a while on potty-training. My first step in potty training was naked time, where I stripped Talmage in hopes that he wouldn't pee on the furniture. It was wildly successful, and Talmage spent large chunks of the day without clothing on. Being naked became a habit at our house. I know what you're thinking. For the sake of strangers showing up unannounced, I needed to dress my child. But he was my little itty-bitty baby boy! Little itty-bitty baby bums are adorable!

The day after Asher joined our family, all I could think was "That kid needs some pants. Somebody should tell his mother."

And somehow, talk of death was less offensive coming from my great big pantsless giant child. He wasn't a baby anymore; he was a boy. And boys talk about death. And dying. And being dead.

In the end, all my efforts to avoid the word kill merely resulted in Talmage's invention of the transitive verb "to die." This type of verb takes a direct object; in a sentence, it sounds like "I'm going to die you." I recounted to Tyler that Talmage just told me he was going to be die me. "No, Mom," Talmage corrected. "I die you. You going to be died."

Excuse me. Little-boy-violent-speak grammar was never my strong point.

Ender's Game and Ender's Shadow by Orson Scott Card

I've read this book four or five times. I don't know that I learned anything new or insightful on this reading, but I did have some reactions in regards to the foreward included in this edition by Orson Scott Card. Card reacted to a criticism that the kids in the story (the main characters who have the fate of the world on their military shoulders) don't process or act like kids. Which, considering Ender is six when the story begins, I'd have to agree with the critic. Card counters that he received a letter from a group of gifted teens at a math camp who write him to tell him how on the mark he is; they too have felt smarter and more adult than other children and Card hit the nail on the head. "Well, of course they did!" I wanted to shout. They are kids. I remember being 12 years and 6 months and feeling that 12 years really should be considered a teenager. At least I felt like a teenager. And by the time I was a teenager at the ripe old age of 13, I wanted to be treated as an adult. Teenagers want to be treated old and think of themselves as old.

As I thought about that I thought about how little kids in high school seem. And even as I did that, the part of me that remembers being a teenager was annoyed at condescending 29 year old me. I guess I'm grateful for all the adults I was surrounded with who were insightful enough to remember how important it is for teenagers feel validated and who made me feel adult. I hope I remember to do that.

I guess I really liked the character of Graff, the adult in the novel who loves and recognizes the value and importance of these kids. Maybe that's what I'd really like to emulate.



I thought a lot more about this book. First off, I was annoyed by the book. I LOVED the character of Ender in Ender's Game and I originally thought that this story, told from the perspective of another character, Bean, changed the character in less than sympathetic ways. But then I changed my mind and thought that maybe it fit; we are most kind to ourselves and less kind when we filter other's personalities through our own perspective. Then I was amazed that Card could tell an entirely new and original story based on largely the same sequence of events. The book wasn't just Ender's Game from a different perspective. It was an entirely new story where, incidentally, some of the same stuff happens. I think that's pretty incredible. And while I'd like to keep Ender's Game totally separate in my mind, I appreciated this new story.

Maybe because I was already thinking about kids acting like adults, I was most interested in the idea of intelligence as it relates to human emotions. In this book at least, Bean is a kid who's genes were altered in embryo, so that he is incredibly smart. Some people in the book question whether he is even human at this point. But Bean knows that he feels emotions like other humans do, so he must still be. He is just able to control his emotions and give little priority to them because he is so smart and it wouldn't be intelligent to give way to emotion so rashly.

This made me wonder about intelligence and emotion. Do smart people control their emotions better than others? To some extent I think this is true, but the only example I have is my Dad. My Dad is a truly intelligent and well-read individual and I've never known my Dad to be offended by anyone. Is that because he's smart? Or is it because that's just his nature? I've never really thought about it before now.

Mickey in Three-Second Clips

As a Direct Result of the Absent-Mindedness I Outlined in a Previous Post. Or Maybe It Was Just Laziness.

The analog signal broadcasting television recently switched over to a digital signal. This was originally planned to happen on February 17, but the date was delayed because the nation wasn't prepared.

The news anchors announced this delay with all the seriousness that would accompany the death count in the war in Afghanistan, like one might say "Hurricane Katrina washed over New Orleans, rendering homeless the thousands WHO WEREN'T PREPARED." Their tone implied images of impending doom, the moon turning to blood, wars and rumors of wars, and the ushering in of the Apocalypse.

Tyler and I laughed about this together, stressing to each other that all that was going to happen was that THE TV WAS GOING TO STOP WORKING. Wasn't that a blessing in a round-about way? We could play board games, make cookies, read books together as a family. These are the perks always advertised in TV shows when the TV mysteriously stops working.

I was all aboard this train of thought, until I remembered that it was February and March was just around the corner, and the last time Tyler and I WERE NOT PREPARED for want of a TV was when we were first married and our cinder-block-walled apartment in Provo didn't received reception AND MARCH MADNESS WAS ON. Tyler called the cable company and asked if he could get the ESPN package. You mean regular service with ESPN added on? No, Tyler responded. Just ESPN. And ESPN2. That wasn't an option, so Tyler spent the next three days on the roof of the complex creating all manner of bunny ears until we got a fuzzy barely watchable CBS signal.

March Madness 2009 was upon us, the analog signal was about to cut out, AND WE WERE NOT PREPARED.

But, lucky for the Howes, the date was moved and we watched March Madness in peace. The impending doom was delayed and, being Tyler and Laura, we still weren't prepared for the new apocalypse and our reception cut off last Friday. We cavalierly let the signal go fuzzy, thinking a lack of reception wouldn't be a big deal. What we weren't anticipating, however, was The Attack of the Bad Seventies Information Program. NBC, in place of programming, is sending on an analog signal an explanation of analog vs. digital TV, created in the style of the calculus programs from the Utah Educational Network. Tyler noted that they had to have filmed the program recently, since it speaks to such a current issue, but they must have dusted off their three-piece polyester suits for the explanation. The TV executives must have thought that Nixon's administration could convince the masses to buy a digital box better than Obama's.

The mullet the authoritative engineer is sporting? Now THAT's a natural disaster.

Angela's Ashes and A River Runs Through It (and Other Stories)

What a heart-breakingly hilarious memoir.

This is a popular novel, so I'm sure everyone has heard this passage: "When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood."

He then continues in heartbreaking detail to illustrate his miserable childhood, "the poverty; the shifless loquacious alcoholic father; the pious defeated mother moaning by the fire; pompous priests; bullying schoolmasters; the English and the terrible things they did to us for eight hundred long years."

As I was reading, I wondered to myself why this was such a successful and beautiful novel. And I decided that it was so wonderful because it was true. The circumstances are so pathetic that if it were fiction, I'd be annoyed by how tragic the author crafted the life. Except that life crafted the life. And laced in every terrible moment--the death of his little brothers, the blood pouring out of his body when he catches Typhoid fever, the horror of hunger, exacerbated when his father comes home drunk, having spend the food money on alcohol--is hope. Because it is a memoir, you know that the child spilling the weight of the horrific world to the angel on the seventh step becomes a snarky and eloquent man. So somehow this childhood, though it's hard to imagine, is going to turn out well.

My other thought was about the huge responsibility I have as an adult raising little children. The author and his brothers are at the mercy of his parents and neighbors decisions. I hope to make decisions that will build my children and allow them fantastic opportunities.



I anticipated loving this book for a couple of reasons. I love memoirs, I love western literature, and I love the movie based on this book. I knew I wouldn't be disappointed when I read the acknowledgements. I mean, if an author can hook you in the thank yous, that's a pretty good guarantee it's going to be a great book.

I've been thinking about the expectations I have for my children. I named them Talmage and Asher, both religious names with a lot of history behind them. Talmage was a great early Mormon scholar and Asher was one the brothers who's lineage became the ten tribes of Israel. His name means happiness. I was pondering this as Tyler and I considered what we felt was important to bless him with this past Sunday. I jokingly suggested we bless him that he'll be kind to his mother. That he wouldn't pick on the other kids at school. That he won't rape, pillage, or plunder. That he'll help old ladies across the street.

But of course, Asher might grow up and do all these things. He might not develop the "contagious happiness" Tyler blessed him with and that we hope for him. And what will I do then? What will I do if he ends up in prison for drug trafficking?

In A River Runs Through It the author's younger brother lives a life of self-destructive habits. His brother and father are at a loss of how to help him. After the brother dies, they are confused by what happened. The author's father asks, "Are you sure you have told me everything you know about his death?" To which the author responds, "'Everything.' 'It's not much, is it?' 'No,' [he replies], 'but you can love completely without complete understanding.'"

I hope to love my sons completely, even when I don't understand choices they might make. That is my number one goal as a mother.

It's All Happening at the Zoo

Though we have a season pass to the zoo, it's much more fun when your dad's company rents it out for a private evening party. Thanks Dad.

To Compete With Tyler's ADD

Thanks to everyone for their kind thoughts about Grandma Ramona.

When Tyler asked my father for my hand in marriage, he made an appointment. He called Dad at his office and they set a time for 7:00 that evening in my basement. When Dad got home from work, he waggled his eyebrows, grinned, and said, "I have a special meeting tonight."

My little sister Marissa was understandably a little paranoid about special meetings. The last special meeting my Dad had had was with President Packer, a meeting that involved fourteen-year-old Marissa being uprooted and moved half-way across the globe. Upon seeing my Dad's eyebrows, Marissa started hyperventilating, gasping out "Special meeting? What special meeting? Are you moving to Zimbabwe?"

But no, it was just Tyler humbly asking for me to be his bride. Tyler sat with my father on the couch and presented his good points. He loved me very much. He was working hard in school to become an educator with an educator's salary to support me. He was honest. He was a good man. My Dad listened to his case and kind of squirreled up his nose. Tyler was sure the answer was going to be no, but instead MY OWN FATHER said, "Are you sure you want her? She's kind of absent-minded."

Absent-minded? I prefer the description "so creative she has her fingers in many things and can't stop to deal with trifles like shoes." And anyone who has lived with me for longer than fifteen minutes can attest that living with me is an ADVENTURE. Who knows when we're going to leave somewhere because Laura can't find her keys? They could be anywhere! Let's play find Laura's wallet! See? It's fun.

This "so creative she has her fingers in many things and can't stop to deal with trifles like shoes" aura I have about me leads to interesting experiences for my children. Talmage is already infinitely more put together than I am, remembering what we need to return to people's houses as we walk out the door. Keys (cheese) was one of his first words because we spent large chunks of the day looking for them. And recently he approached me beaming with excitement saying, "Look, Mom! My socks are same-sames!" And I thought, "What a happy child you would be if Maquel were your mom. Or Chandra. Or Barbara. Or Sarah. Or any other mother besides me who regularly dresses their children in matching clothing."

On Teacher Appreciation Day, Chipotle Mexican Grill offered educators free burritos. Tyler and I decided to take advantage of the delicious fresh mex. We loaded the boys up in the car and I took the wheel and started to drive. I was just out of the driveway when I turned to Tyler and asked, "So, where to?" Tyler said, "I thought you would know where it was." I said, "Nope, you're the one who told me it was in Sugarhouse." How would you respond to this situation? Go inside and look it up in the phone book? Call sister who knows where the restaurant is? Check it out on Google Earth? How did I respond? "Ahh, Sugarhouse is only covers a couple mile radius. I'm sure we'll find it." Exciting right? Adventure! Living with Laura is FUN.

Twenty minutes later, after driving the length of 2100 S., 1300 E., and Highland Drive, as well as Wilmington Ave and Sugarmont Drive, we pulled into Shopko where I looked up the address. "Are we there yet?" Talmage intoned. "If you had any other mother, we would be," Tyler assured him. "But with yours, it'll be fifteen more minutes. And that's if you're lucky."

Babysitting

Throw Down

Why I love being an elementary school teacher:

In Memoriam

My grandma passed away today. She has been degenerating over the last couple years due to pulmonary hypertension. Thursday before Memorial Day she fell in her home, blacking out from the dizzyness and little oxygen she was receiving. She had been in the hospital for several days and just Monday was moved to a care facility. Today her heart failed her and she passed away at 12:10 p.m. If she had had this disease a decade earlier there wouldn't have been a treatment for her and she wouldn't have made it to 90 years old. Arguably, she's been kept alive beyond her time (although I'm not sure I believe it works like that).

I've been struck by the normalcy of my day. This morning I woke up and made breakfast (Tyler had Kix. Talmage and I had granola). I tidied the kitchen and took a shower. I gave a talk at the local Care Center and after picked Talmage up from Aunt Lori's house. 12:10 occurred as I was driving the dog to Petsmart to be groomed. After 12:10 I went to Costco and we ate lunch there. I had a turkey wrap and a berry smoothie and Talmage had a hot dog. I taught my class tonight. I ordered pictures.

Two things plague me.

One, I had considered going to visit Grandma this morning, but instead decided to go this evening and missed her. Two, I've been anxious each time I've seen Grandma for the last several years, due to the biography of our ancestor, Nephi Fawcett, she's asked me to write but which I haven't completed. I feel like I'm her unfinished business left on Earth.

But I am aware that these are selfish concerns and that they have nothing to do with Grandma. So tonight, I would like to write about her.

Grandma loved the color turquoise. Her wardrobe revealed spots of magenta and brief flashes of purple, but turquoise was the main palette.

Grandma was the most social woman I know. She could trace the Adamic link to everyone on this Earth. It was a common occurrence for her to turn around in a restaurant and say to the next table "Did I hear you say you're from Connecticut? I used to live in New Jersey. Maybe we know the same people." And the amazing thing was that she always did know the same people.

Grandma loved to travel. As a small sampling, she went with her husband to Colorado, India, and Bora Bora. She took my mother to China, Egypt, and Peru. She took me to Pennsylvania, Canada, and Hawaii. We'd frequently play How Many States Have You Been In. I believe she's been in all 50.

Grandma is comfortable with anyone. Anyone. Growing up in my home, we regularly had visitors from Brazil. And Grandma could tell them extensive stories about the Riders.

Grandma is a teacher. I have watched and enjoyed slide presentations, old tapes, family movies from the 40s for hours on end. When I was seven.

Grandma is the lead character in The Most Romantic Story I Have Ever Known. The World War II soldiers were stationed in Salt Lake and Grandma accompanied her friend to go dance with the men. She looked smashing that evening, and Dick Murray, upon entering the hall, turned to his friend and said, "Hold my hat; I'm going to dance with the girl in the red dress." Their honeymoon two years later lastest a full year.

I spent Memorial Day with her at my brother's house. She had a hard time making it to the bathroom and passed out from the exertion of being carried in a wheelchair. I stayed awake late that evening and pondered how frightening it would be to feel your body falling apart inside of you. But Grandma wasn't frightened. Grandma is almost incapable of depression or pessimism, despite a life that has known some black times. She seemed constant and normal, ready for the next trip.

The nurses said she was cheerful this morning, but slipped into a fairly catatonic state toward noon. Mom was with her at this point. She rubbed her arm and noted that she didn't look like herself. The doctors called my mom out to let her know there was nothing more to do. Mom noticed that during this conversation, Grandma smiled, perhaps greeting or anticipating the other side (and I do believe it works like that).

In the last week, Mom encouraged Grandma to say I love you to her grandchildren. When I said goodbye to her Sunday night, she said "I love you, Laura," after I kissed her on the forehead. It was nice to hear it vocalized. But I almost preferred our previous goodbyes. I'd talk to her on the phone and ask her about her day, her friends who took her to lunch, her meeting at the DUP. I'd close by telling her that I loved her. "Okay, cupie," she'd laugh. Then she'd be gone.




I posted this late last night. When I woke up this morning, I realized I had unconciously based it on "The Last Shot" by Tobias Wolff. My credits and apologies.