Christmas 2010

Christmas Eve at 88 mph

Today is the Best Holiday of All The Happy Holidays

I'll be expecting your Happy Half-Birthday wishes sometime in the next 14 hours.

Aquarium

So Instead of President A. Talmage Howe, Look for President Asher D. Howe Circa 2070.

Talmage has just picked up a swearing habit. He says "Oh my gosh," ONLY HE DOESN'T SAY GOSH. I'm not sure where this comes from, as neither Tyler nor I swear. I'm blaming society.

Asher, on the other hand, can accurately identify Jesus in any painting of the Savior. Even if it's a picture of Christ with the twelve apostles, he'll appropriately point to the right figure and say "Jeezzz!" I also have no idea where he learned this. But I'm pretty sure I'm going to take credit for it.

The Trans-Siberian Orchestra and the Howes

Because I'm Asher's Favorite

Asher's cutest quality is that he absolutely worships his dad. I have no bias in saying that. When I walk through the door, he shrieks "Dad!" with as much gusto as you would expect the average person to shout "Fire!" given the right set of circumstances.

Being Asher's favorite has it's good points and it's bad points. On the good side, Asher will always start the day happily if I get him out of his crib instead of Laura, he reaches for me to snuggle when he is hurt or sad, and he does that joyous shriek thing every time I enter the room. On the bad side, he would like to make sure all things that belong to Daddy are taken to Daddy.

This is rather cute when Asher wants to bring me my wallet and keys. My watch, glasses, and shoes are alright with me as well. But lately, Asher has started to bring me things I would probably prefer he didn't. And so, on that note, here are the top three worst Asher-to-Daddy deliveries of the month:

3. As I was walking up the stairs, I heard a big thump on the hardwood floor. By the time I reached the top of the stairs, Asher greeted me clutching my Mac laptop to his cheek and saying, "Dad!"

2. A few weeks ago I was completely drugged up on Nyquil and asleep in bed. I believe I was awoken by a similar loud bang on the hardwood floor, but I'm certain I was awake to hear Asher's footsteps and the dragging of a heavy object. Asher entered the bedroom saying, "Dad!" and lugging behind him my $3,000+ camera.

1. Just this morning I was in charge of the two boys alone, and I decided to slip into the shower. I was only in there a few moments before I rinsed the soap from my eyes to see Asher sticking my iPad through the shower curtain, smiling, and repeating, "Dad!"

So, I have the unconditional adoration of a 21-month old and a soaking-wet iPad.

But, the iPad still works . . . God bless those Mac people.

This Is For Those Of You Who Find It Funny When Michael Scott Yankee Swaps Phyllis' Handknit Hot Pad

I've done a number of humiliating things in the name of service.

1. I served a mission.
2. I've danced as a Corny Collins' dancer at East Mill Creek park in front of the general public.
3. I've taken swing dancing lessons.
4. I've choreographed dance numbers for many teenagers who have no interest in dancing.
5. I've performed Rindercella at the ward picnic.
6. I've taught a number of gospel doctrine lessons that I learned alienated potential friends from whom I learned later that because of those lessons, they thought I was "snobby."
7. Did I mention I served a mission? Because on that mission while I was training a companion from Marseille, France, I took her bus contacting. I spent the whole ride enthusiastically greeting people and talking to the cute little old ladies who entered. When we got off the bus, my companion turned to me and said, "I want to go home. You looked like you were handicapped."

I've been okay doing all these things. I think people wonder if I enjoy it. Let me go on record and say, no, I don't like singing tone-deaf versions of "Oh Come All Ye Faithful" to large audiences of critical Quebecois. I thought I didn't care what people thought about me enough that I could spout out spoonerisms in the name of building Zion. But the last 24 hours have taught me that I do care, a little.

Tyler and I were put in charge of the dancing portion of our ward Christmas party. Last year, cute Russ Ence taught this adorable Christmas line dance which ended with everyone spontaneously breaking out into waltzing around the gym. The organizer of last year's event wanted the same spontaneity. Only he wanted me to plan it. And he wanted me to plan it to occur right as people had just filled their plates and sat down to eat.

I was the ward Christmas party sacrificial lamb.

Tyler was asked to MC the slaughter. He announced that the dancing portion of the evening will begin, and, recognizing that this might be difficult for people, given that they just began eating and had no desire to get up, invited specific people to join us, among them, Jared Johnsen, Mark De St. Aubin, and Russ Ence. Now you should know, I've seen from this collective group of men Zac Ephron impersonations involving dancing and lip-syncing to "Get Your Head in the Game," Joseph Smith speeches to gas station attendants, spontaneous Arnold Schwarzenegger impressions during testimony meeting, and heckling of the stake patriarch.

NO ONE CAME TO SAVE US.

Tyler and I line-danced BY OURSELVES for 4 minutes 28 seconds. People avoided my eyes. Friends pretended they didn't know me. One person booed. Not even the person who organized the event came up to join us.

I missed the Hammers.

And then, AND THEN, we were to lead everyone in a "spontaneous" couples dance. After our previous display, everyone remained glued to their seats. So Tyler and I showed off our pathetic swing dancing skills (skills that I acquired because I was asked to build Zion by choreographing a swing number for the unwilling teenagers) because swing dancing was easier than slow dancing in front of several hundred people. We didn't do it at our wedding. Last night wasn't the time either.

Afterward, in the nursing lounge of the bathroom, I discovered that tears are the instinctual reaction to humiliation. They just come.

This morning I read the blog entry of my dear friend whose 2-year-old daughter has been diagnosed with leukemia. They shaved her head this week and after the last of her thinning but silky locks fell to the pillow, she reached up to her head, touched her newly bald pate and said, "I want my hair back."

Some people give more than me. I can offer my dignity on the altar of the Lord.

And Laura Didn't Want Me To Stop For The Photo . . .

Alright, you have until Friday to vote for the correct picture (#4 . . . of course). And, feel free to vote on as many different computers as you possibly can.

Cast your vote at: KSL Live 5 Weather Calendar Photo Contest

By the way, if you don't think the fourth picture is the best, you are excused from voting.

Pray For Him

Tyler is against the medical profession at large. You'd think this would be awkward, considering the fact that both of my brothers are doctors and my brother-in-law is studying to become a doctor. You'd be right.

No, truthfully Tyler trusts my brothers. AND THAT'S IT. He trusts no other medical professional, from the pediatrician who saw him as a child to your neighbor's doula. This has to do with the expense and the HMOs and the fact that you can't compare prices of services and the way they make him feel like an idiot and blah, blah, blah.

I can pinpoint this feeling of his to the doctor's visit he made about a year after we got married. Tyler had a blister on his foot, which he popped. The blister then got infected so he went to the BYU Medical Center, where the doctor told him you shouldn't pop blisters. Tyler pointed out that since it was all red and pussy now, shouldn't he pop it and get the pus out? The doctor thought about it, and said, sure, you might as well. Here, I'll do it for you.

We received a bill for $220 for "incision and drainage."

Tyler took the moral of the story to be "Doctors are evil." I took the moral of the story to be "Tyler and I are idiots for not checking to see whether our new insurance covers the BYU Medical Center."

I can pinpoint my mistrust of Tyler's medical experience to our current doctor who Tyler saw over the summer for a sore throat. Let me preface this story by saying we very carefully selected this doctor based on the fact that he was available at 10:00 that Wednesday. Tyler told him his throat hurt really bad and that his son had just tested positive for strep. The strep test came back negative, but his doctor gave him something for the pain.

Lortab. The doctor prescribed Lortab for a scratchy throat.

This time, because the doctor didn't diagnose a treatable disease, Tyler took the moral of the story to be "Doctors are evil." I took the moral of the story to be "Now we know which doctor to go to when Tyler develops an addiction to prescription painkillers."

Tyler also distrusts medicines in all forms. Because, clearly, "they don't do anything." He reserves two exceptions: Nyquil and ice cream. Somewhere along the line I was trying to get him to stay home from work and told him he needed to rest and let his body heal itself. He still doesn't stay home from work, but the second he gets home he takes Nyquil to induce a coma-like state and sleeps every minute possible. Whatever bronchitis or pneumonia he's got right now he's battled with 12 fluid ounces of the green stuff. He sent me back to the store for another large bottle of cherry. I made sure he realized he couldn't take Nyquil more than four times a day, and he said, "That's only if you want to avoid severe liver damage." SEVERE LIVER DAMAGE. A condition, once he's got it, that will go untreated because he refuses to see a doctor.

The ice cream as a medical necessity has even less logic behind it, but Tyler's convinced it's the only thing in the WORLD that has any chance of soothing his throat/chest congestion/sore wrist/whatever hurts right now. All I know is that he's made his way through a quart of Mint Chocolate Chip and Dreyer's Specialty Egg Nog and is ready for the Cookies n' Cream I bought today.

While I'm Downright Embarrassed That I've Read Every Word of Her Testimony

Can we all agree that Elizabeth Smart is the most beautifully dressed 23-year-old around?

Soccer 2010

Men Are From Mars . . .

I made spaghetti squash with marinara sauce for dinner tonight. I thought it was delicious. My family disagreed. Asher spent most of the meal scooping the squash out of the bowl and placing it in what seemed strategic places around his high chair. Talmage took one bite and then devoted his energy to convincing Daddy to try it. "You'll like it, Daddy. It's actually really good! It's crunchy!" After the second bite he decided that he changed his mind, and could he have some Halloween candy instead? Tyler muscled his way through the main dish, and then ate six pieces of buttered toast.

"Is it okay?" I asked.

"It's okay" he responded.

"Should I make it again?"

"No."

I mentioned the meal and it's dismal failure to sister Marissa. "See?" she pointed out. "That's the difference between men and women. A woman will think, 'I wonder how I can cut 400 calories out of this meal?' and then spaghetti squash seems a surprisingly delicious option. Men just aren't used to sacrificing taste for the greater good of health and nutrition." This line of thinking brought many things into sharp reality. For example, Tyler looks adorable in a baseball cap, but never wears them because they feel a little bit "itchy."

To which I respond, try heels. Or even if you're not a person who wears heels, try women's pants, and then attempt to ask me condescendingly, "Why don't you just carry your wallet in your pocket?" Those pockets are for show, man! A grocery store receipt wouldn't fit in there. Or while we're on the subject, how about bras? There's no comfort in an underwire, especially after you add a layer of Gs under there.

And I can already hear Tyler's response: "You know what we don't eat enough of? Pizza. Pizza is delicious. Oooh! What about potato chips? Potato. Corn oil. What's not to like? Or maybe just a star value meal from Carl's Jr? Yes, I'll take two, please."

If you need me, I'll be over here in my stilettos eating my squash.

Halloween 2010

He's a Pirate

The Real World from Talmage's Perspective

Wishing You a Spooky Halloween

Do you ever wonder if sexy Halloween costume advertising is where the women end up who didn't ace their modeling classes?



There, there, French maid. You'll get there someday.

Books. A Whole Lot of Them.

I'll be the first to admit this collection of thoughts on books I've read isn't nearly as good as previous reviews.



So very many conflicting thoughts on this book. First of all, it was amazing. Hands down incredible. I wish I were closer to the novel (that I hadn't read it 4 months ago) so I could comment more intelligently on its super incredibleness. I remember my thoughts at the time were of women and men as they control society. I loved the scenes where the women looked to the men to see whether things were okay. Not to the circumstances, but to how the men were handling the circumstances. This acknowledgement didn't seem a position of weakness, but rather recognizing that when the men stopped handling life, it would be the woman's role to then handle life for them. I thought about how I react to life, and realized that I, too, often react more to how Tyler reacts to life rather than life itself.

I loved the description of Ma Joad and her role as a mother:

She seemed to know, to accept, to welcome her position, the citadel of the family, the strong place that could not be taken. And since Tom and the children could not know hurt or fear unless she acknowledged hurt and fear, she has practiced denying them in herself. And since, when a joyful thing happened, they looked to see whether joy was on her, it was her habit to build up laughter out of inadequate materials […] from position as healer, her hands had grown sure and cool and quiet; from her position as arbiter she had become as remote and faultless in judgment as a goddess. She seemed to know that if she swayed the family shook, and if she ever really deeply wavered or despaired the family would fall, the family will to function would be gone.

These two thoughts served as the thesis for me (and I'm sure this is the meaning I drew out of the book because I am both a woman and a mother); that the terror of the government, the terror of the depression served to break society, to break the men involved in the story. I didn't have much confidence in the success of Tom's mission by the end of the novel, and even the sacrifice of Jim Casey (the Jesus Christ figure) didn't accomplish much in the immediate narrative (although, you could argue, it had a huge effect on the great big giant audience who rallied around the novel) but the women held the "fambly" together. The final scene seemed to indicate two things for me: one, when a young woman nurses an old man, conventions of society have been completely destroyed, but two, in that situation of utter moral and economic devastation, it is the women who are able to sustain, to succor, to make endure.

My other thoughts were that I need to read more happy books. I just kept thinking, "Can't they just get to California and be depressed already? I know this is not going to end well, and I've got 400 more pages of it not ending well."

That said, by the end I was satisfied in my disappointment.



I can't remember any specific thoughts I had, but I did hear that the movie of this ends before the children grow up, and I thought that would make the story far more tragic than the book. I thought the story was resolved through the daughter, whose name I can't remember at the moment.

Also, that Meggie's first husband is a jerk. I'd even go so far as to say jerkface.



This book changed my life. At least the way I eat.

For such a big statement, you'd think I'd have more to say, right? Not tonight. But I am giving an enrichment lesson on nutrition next Thursday, so maybe I'll digest my thoughts and post after that.

But everyone should definitely read this book.



This book was cute and was fun to read since I've always looked at quilting as a hobby I admire other people doing, but have never really felt pushed to pick up myself. I haven't really felt pushed to pick up the rest of the series.



Continued changing my life. Read the book. It will liberate you. And stay away from gogurts.



This book is one reason I have serious regrets about not staying up-to-date on my blog. This book needed some breakdown, some digestion, and this blog would have been the perfect place to do it. So if you've read the book, call me. Let's figure some things out. Except I might have to reread the book first to remember.



I've already proclaimed my love for Richard Russo on this blog, and he didn't disappoint me with this latest novel, but it wasn't quite as earth shaking as my favorite books by him, namely Bridge of Sighs and Straight Man. He did get me thinking about perspectives, and the fact that how we view a situation like a marriage or a family member might be completely different from how someone else might view that same situation. Ah, those sticky paradigms.

I do love a good unreliable narrator.



What is it about teen lit that would make someone leave the Grand America at 7:30 in the morning before their husband wakes up on her 8th anniversary to drive around the city looking for an open bookstore to buy the final book in a series because they just need to know how it ends?

Purely hypothetical, of course.

Target. Target was open. On 7200 S. A whole long ways away from the Grand America.



I reread parts of this book 4 or 5 times. It was like I was reading Twilight. Take that teen lit.



You know how I love me some Gregory Maguire.

This is the first book by him, however, that I liked as much as Wicked. I liked the thought that we view ourselves through the perspectives of others until we get enough independence and identity to view ourselves though our own perspective. I also loved the historical context of the 1400s. There was some great intrigue at the time, enough to produce a thoroughly despicable wicked Queen.

For the record, I'd feel much more comfortable recommending this book than I would Wicked.

I Expected Him to Notice, Just Not Until He Was a Teenager

"Mom, did you take forgetting lessons? Cause you're really good at it."

Cornbelly's Part 2

Giving the People What They Want. At Least the Sally and Laura People.

The following is a list of items I served Asher for breakfast this morning.

1. Bowl of syrup
2. Eggy bread made to dip in that syrup
3. Cheerios, milk, spoon (these each get mentioned individually because he asked for them individually)
4. Handful of Rice Chex
5. Graham crackers
6. Bowl of frozen fruit
7. Smoothie
8. Cup of milk
9. Bowl of marinara sauce
10. Bread for dipping in that marinara sauce

The following is a list of items that Asher actually ate for breakfast this morning.
1. Bowl of syrup

Not only did he eat the syrup, he completely ignored the eggy bread I made to dip in it, so he dug his pudgy fingers into the syrup and smeared the mess in his mouth, on his cheeks, and in his hair. In fact, when I lifted him out of his chair, he stuck to the tray in front of him and I had to pull with a good amount of force. The sticky sound he made as he separated from the seat was impressive.

Now, I'll admit I'm kind of judging myself for indulging him. I mean, what kind of mother makes four different meals for one child, including tomato sauce for breakfast? A poor one, one whose child is going to walk all over her and who will facilitate his drug habit when he's a teenager. She should read some books. Or at least listen to Dr. Phil more.

Then the indignant mother in me gets mad at the judging mother in me and says, "Nu, uh!" You give me a screaming child and I'll patiently ignore that child for YEARS. I've got nerves of STEEL. I can so no with the BEST of them. I pride myself on my tantrum ignoring abilities. I laugh in the face of child anger. But here's the thing. I taught Asher to say please. And it's pretty much the cutest thing ever. Truck full of puppies? Not even close. Baby in a chicken costume with chunky thighs sticking out? We're getting there, but not quite. And I defy any mother to look at Asher with his superfluous band-aids on his face because he wanted them and cottage cheese matted all through his very fine baby hair and hear "More. Cheese. Please?" and say no.

It can't be done. Fatty babies gotta eat, am I right?

And now it just clicked. This is why Scott is Deirdre's favorite. He was just that cute.

I'm raising Scott Paulsen.

Eight Years and Counting

"Tyler, do you love me as much as Jim loves Pam?"

"I don't know. Jim sure loves Pam a lot."

While Pondering the Sacrament . . .

"Dad, when Heavenly Father was a little boy, do you think people just called him Heaven?"

Fireman Five

A Big House

Everybody Cries

Just Finished Mockingjay . . .

All I can think is how truly unfortunate the name Peeta is. Particularly for the son of a baker. It's almost as bad as if she'd named him Bun.

Fat Cats

LPP Evolution

This is my lengthiest project to date. This video is a composite of nearly every time I sat down to study during my 15-month LPP Program. If you watch closely, I think you can actually see me getting smarter.

Apparently the Word "Private" Only Has One Meaning to the Four Year Old

Talmage: "Can we ever go to a naked pool?"
Mom: " . . . a what kind of pool?"
Talmage: "A naked pool. I wanted to go there but Daddy said I needed to be invited."
Mom: "Daddy wanted to take you to a naked pool?"
Talmage: "Yes, but he said we needed to be invited."
Mom: "Do you mean a private pool?"
Talmage: "Oh yeah! That's it! Can we ever go to a private pool?"

Now I Have Two!

I'm officially twice as smart as Laura.

3rd Ever Clark Evans' H.A.S. G.A.S.

Aint No Sunshine

Where's Laura?

Just wanted to remind my beautiful wife that she is always invited to participate in this forum.

Bicycle

Rocky Mountain High

Ragnar Relay

Destruction of Our Backyard

Indiana Jones

Talmage came to me one day panicked that a boy was missing in the jungle behind our house. That sparked this rescue mission.

Leaf Blower

A Phone Conversation Between At Work Me and At Home Tyler

Me: "Hi! How are you?"

Tyler: "I'm great. Hey, out of curiosity, how much does Asher weigh?"

Me: "About 24, 25 pounds."

Tyler: "Huh. Well, how much Tylenol would you give him?"

Me: "I wouldn't give him any unless he was in pain. Was he in pain?"

Tyler: "Uh, he may have fallen off the table outside and hit his head on the concrete."

Me: "He WHAT?"

Tyler: "Don't worry. I'm sure he's fine. I'm pretty sure I didn't give him too much medicine."

Me: "Well, did he seem okay?"

Tyler: "Sure. He fell asleep right after."

Me: "He WHAT?!!"

Asher's Tricks

Just Three Days Later . . .

During the last twenty minutes of church, I went down to the primary room to help Talmage deliver a talk we had prepared. We wrote out his talk in picture form, so he could say a lot of it himself. However, I stood next to him ready to help if needed. He didn’t use me much, but I was glad I was there to make one important correction.

Tal’s talk was written: “When Mom and Dad decided to get married, they were excited and a little scared. Mom told Dad, ‘You’re my family.’ Dad felt really happy. That’s because the Holy Ghost was telling them that starting a family was a good thing to do. Three years later, my mom told my dad she had a baby in her tummy. When I came out, they were very happy.”

Tal actually said: “When Mom and Dad got married, they were excited and a little nervous. Mom and Dad made a family. Dad felt really happy. Three days later, my mom had a baby—it was me!”

I blushed and quickly corrected for the audience that it was actually three years later, and we did not have a shotgun wedding. The adults laughed hysterically, the kids (including Talmage) began laughing just because the adults were. It took a bit to get everyone settled down and to get Talmage back on track.

Darn kids!

Coyote Gulch

On The Down Low

Mosiah 12:1

". . .Abinadi came among them in disguise, that they knew him not, and began to prophesy among them, saying: Thus has the Lord commanded me, saying—Abinadi, go and prophesy unto this my people. . ."

Not even one sentence and Abinadi had already wasted all the time he spent that morning working on his disguise!

But First We've Got to Swing By and Pick Up Chewbacca. He's in Roosevelt.

Before Asher was born, Tal's life was full of entertainment. Entertainment I provided. We went everywhere together--the zoo, the Children's Museum, the Planetarium--and did everything together--art projects, lunch, games. Tal's mind was booked solid, with a quick trip to see the elephants at 9:00 before we took Daddy lunch at 11:15. All before a 1:00 nap, of course.

When Asher came, Tal had to do a lot more of the entertaining. And I tell you what--he has blossomed without the stifling mental influence of the Laura Show. He now often gets lost in the world of his imagination and will randomly (without any context telling me what this means) ask me, "Mom, do you want 738 attacks or 427?"

To which I will confidently answer, "427."

Lately Tal has taken to combining all the many stories that bop around in his brain. For example, I am Leia. Talmage is Luke.* Except when I am Alfred as a sidekick to his Batman.** Most often we're stuck inside the belly of a whale.*** Sometimes we're going on a mission.**** Other times we're trying to kill Dark Vader.***** We accomplish these lofty endeavors through a variety of means. Sometimes we acquire attacks; for example, we could go to the store and buy a fast attack, a lazor beam attack, x-ray vision attack, or, my most favorite, obedience attack.****** Other times we can collect coins and 1-Ups.******* We need 1,000 of each.******* If we get caught in a battle, we loose all our coins.******** But don't worry, Han is in Washington with the Millenium Falcon.********** He can bring us more coins.

Frankly, a four-year-old boy imagination isn't that interesting to an almost 30-year-old girl. Don't tell Talmage, but I don't really want to kill Dark Vader. I'd rather read a book. All this has me longing for the Laura Show again. Do you want to go the zoo, Tal? What about an awesome painting? No? All right. How much were those Tiger Leg Attacks again?

*Star Wars--a show whose main attraction is that one of Talmage's best friends named Brady is obsessed with it. I had to cave and show it to him just so he and Brady could speak the same language.
**Batman--a show which Talmage has never seen, but from which he owns several accessories. Tyler let me know this morning that Tal learned about Alfred from him. See, Tyler was relaxing on the front porch when Talmage walked up and said with great alarm, "Dad, we need to go save the little boy lost in the forest!!" Tyler let him know that as Alfred, he mostly hung out in the batcave located conveniently right where he was sitting. "But go ahead, Batman. You and I can communicate through receivers. I'll stay here and hold down the fort."
***Yes, this is the biblical whale. You'd think this is from Veggie Tales, but its more from the song "Follow the Prophet." Tal doesn't know the words, but he comes in strong on the chorus. And by strong, I mean loud and forceful.
****I thought this was a mission like the kids in Little Einstein's go on a mission. But Alfred and Batman have to be 19 to go. And then I thought how much more fun LDS missions would be if you could kill Dark Vader instead of convert the masses. Somehow I think light sabers would add to the Church's appeal.
*****Yes, I know Darth Vader's name is actually DARTH Vader. Talmage doesn't.
******I'm pretty sure this is a cursed Pokemon reference. CURSED POKEMON.
*******Nintendo? I'm not sure, because I'm usually tutoring my nephew when Tal gets his video gaming in.
********Talmage's favorite card game is Mille Bournes. You have to get 1,000 points in that game, too.
*********I'm pretty sure the battle comes from Pokemon. CURSED POKEMON.
**********Star Wars, again. Washington is where his cousins live. We talk about Washington a lot.

Completing His First Year of Preschool

A Recent Conversation on Gender Differences

Talmage: "Pink was my favorite color, except I don't like it anymore. Pink's a GIRL color."

Mom: "Oh yeah? What's your favorite color now?"

Talmage: "Purple."

Is It Just Me? Or Has Tom Selleck Quit His Day Job to Work as LA Police Chief Charlie Beck?

Hide and Seek . . . With Asher

Asherese (ash-er-eez): A One Year Old's Lexicon

Asher can say roughly 18 words:

1. Uh-Oh
2. Dad
3. Cup
4. Button
5. Poop
6. Spoon
7. Book
8. Mmm
9. Moo
10. Quack
11. Woof
12. Roar
13. Kiss
14. Cracker
15. Keys
16. Dance
17. Up

And sometimes, but very rarely

18. Mom

However, these translate into about 5 sounds. For example, "bup" could mean one of several things. "Bup" translates as "cup," "button," or "up" and is not to be confused with "Boop" which could mean at any given time "spoon," "poop," or "book." "Ma," could mean, "I want food" or "The cow says," but means "Mom" so seldomly you can pretty much rule that option out. A guttural "Kkk" is either "cracker" or "keys" and sometimes "quack" meaning duck or any animal or object that moves around.

"Dad" always means Dad. And we've learned that Asher thinks about Dad roughly 83% of the day. It's kind of adorable.

Navigating the English language has proven difficult for both Asher and I. So Asher has resorted to the extremes of human emotion in order to communicate. Here's an actual transcription of a conversation we had earlier in the week. Keep in mind that I can't type in the full symphonic range of his joy and alternate misery (at least not at the decible he voices it), so I'm electing to translate his responses into grown-up language:

Mom: "Asher would you like a grape?"

Asher: "I would very much like that grape! That grape would make me very happy! In fact, I can imagine very few pleasures available in life that would make me happier than that grape! Maybe if we could nurse again--I think I'd like that too--but outside of that, I think a grape would be perfection! So I'm going to express my joy and happiness by my squeals of pleasure and delight. Did you hear that? That adorable laughter? That is my excitement for the grape I am about to receive!"

Mom: "How about a strawberry?"

Asher: "Are you kidding me? A strawberry? What in your prior experience would tell you I like strawberries? Maybe the strawberries I devoured earlier this morning? Well that is OLD NEWS, my friend. This is now and I strongly oppose strawberries. You know how some people feel about child labor and apartheid? Well, THAT is exactly how I feel about strawberries. I frown on you and your strawberry offering ways. Let me arch my back and head butt you to communicate how much that strawberry offends me and my morals. What, you think Nelson Mandela was above a little head butt? Well he would have done, ma'am, if you had offered him such an insolent fruit. In fact, while I think about it, your nose DOESN'T look distinguished, it's just bumpy. So there."

We're both looking forward a more communicative time.

Books, the audio version

I found a solution to my reading issues. Books on tape. Or CD. Or MP3 files, rather. See, then I can listen while I scrub the floors or drive to work or fold laundry. Genius.

I looked online for great books on tape and this book was suggested. I had heard this touted as cross between Harry Potter and Jane Austen and had long wanted to read it. I think because it was the first audiobook I had listened to I had many questions at the beginning (Who is this Childermass guy? And where did that other guy come from?) but by the end I was well practiced.

Book reviews seem to critique it for being a little slow to start off, but by the end--after I had spent 32 some odd hours with the story--I felt sad to hear it end. It really is an incredible novel and alternative history. I ended up checking the book out and reading a page here, a passage there. It just kept getting better and better.

I feel there's so much to be said, but instead I'm going to end with this quote, which I found the funniest in the novel:

"The light was watery, dim and incomparably sad. Vast, grey, gloomy hills rose up all around them and in between the hills there was a wide expanse of black bog. Stephen had never seen a landscape so calculated to reduce the onlooker to utter despair in an instant.

'This is one of your kingdoms, I suppose, sir?' he said.

'My kingdoms?' exclaimed the gentleman in surprise. 'Oh, no! This is Scotland!'"

I have a feeling it would be even more funny if I were English.



My Dad gave this book to all his children several years ago for Christmas, and though I started it, I just couldn't push my way through. Not that it wasn't interesting. It was just non-fiction.

Tyler, however, read the book recently and refers to it in 87% of his conversation. He is the ideal audience for this book since he currently spends 90% of his work time in crucial conversations--times when tension is high and emotions run strong. I figured to understand what he was saying I needed to read the book.

It was actually a great read and I enjoyed it and have tried to apply the principles. In fact, after I was done with book, I approached Tyler and we had several conversations we've avoided in our marriage for several years--my housekeeping and Tyler's driving. Not bad, eh?

My chief thought, however, was that while these would be good principles to apply at any time in my life, I think I'm more apt to right now. I think I focus more on self-improvement while I'm raising such impressionable little children. I want them to learn good principles for dealing with people, so I feel a greater obligation to be better myself.



I loved the previous books in the series. This one was all right. I don't think that's actually a reflection on the book itself, I think it's more that I was IN the Fablehaven world last summer and needed that fantastical immersion to truly appreciate the series finale. That said, it was a lot of fun.

One other thought. I was CERTAIN that a plot/character twist I had been anticipating since Book Two would happen, and it didn't happen. It was like if Snape had really turned out to be the bad guy. Now, I know enough about character and plot development to know that there's no way he didn't plant plot twist seeds along the way. So I'd love to talk to him and find out why he didn't follow through with it. Was he intentionally trying to throw off the reader? Was he developing the idea that you don't know who to trust? C'mon Brandon Mull. I need some explanation.



This book wasn't what I thought it was going to be. I knew it had been made into a film with Keira Knightley, and I was expecting a saucy romance. But it wasn't. (Note, I'm probably going to spoil it if you haven't read it.)

A couple of years ago I saw a play called "Stones in His Pockets." It was pretty amazing. It had a cast of two actors playing roughly 15 characters switching genders and accents and was generally hilarious. But it wasn't strictly a comedy. I forget the details, but in the course of the play a boy commits suicide and other generally terrible stuff happens. If it were real life, the events would dictate a black tragedy. But the town decides to make the story into a movie, and through the movie of it, they are able to make it a positive experience. Sorry that's a terrible summary of the play. But what I felt the point was is that art is necessary to make sense of life. Art is necessary to make life--a generally depressing and mundane affair--wonderful.

I felt a bit of that them with Atonement. A girl commits a terrible sin--falsely accusing someone of rape--and based on her sin an innocent man (her sister's love, no less) is sent to prison and to war where he will die. Her sister, estranged from her based on her sin, will also die before she can make amends. So the girl spends the rest of her life wallowing in her guilt, trying to make her atonement by writing it, exposing the guilty parties and giving the two doomed lovers a place of happiness. I continued the conversation I had in my head after I watched Stones; can art be a means of atonement? Can art, with it's Greek catharsis, assuage guilt by making sense of it? I'm not sure I have an answer, but I enjoyed thinking about it.



So, I discovered that far too few of the books I enjoy reading are available in audio format. Generally bestsellers get made into books on tape, but while I certainly enjoy some bestsellers, I have very little interest in the autobiography of Barbara Walters. Or even less, Maureen McCormick. Which leaves me with a whole lot of nonfiction. That's okay, there's plenty of nonfiction I've been meaning to get around to for years.

Michael Pollan BLOWS MY MIND. He outlines the history of four domesticated plants--the apple, the tulip, marijuana, and the potato, and examines how these plants have flourished by capitalizing on human desires for sweetness, beauty, intoxication, and control. I liked it because one of my pet theories of life is self-mastery, or as I like to say it, putting my spirit in charge of my body. He constantly referred to the human desire to revel in carnal pleasure (he referred to Nietzsche and called it the Dionysian tendencies) and the human impulse to organize and master those pleasures (what Nietzsche called the Apollonian tendencies). In any case, I had never thought about how plants play with and exploit those desires and how humanity reacts by organizing (domesticating) nature.

See what I mean? BLOWS YOUR MIND.

Walk Like a Man

From Talmage and Asher - Happy Mother's Day

Well, If You Thought That Getting Invited to This Blog Meant That You'd Get To Read Something Interesting, You'd Be Wrong.

But welcome to the new and exclusive blog, "Howe Thoughts: The Private Edition." We'll be updating and changing over the next little bit, and that plus my floor that needs immediate attention means that I won't have a good entry for a week or so. Tyler will probably post a movie for you. And some cute pictures of my kids. Who, I think, are reason enough to go through the inconvenience of typing in your email address to read about my life. Well, Talmage is at least. Asher's been grumpy as of late. (Try refusing him the medicine cabinet. He'll head butt you and scream as if you're attempting to remove his kidneys. Without anesthesia. And without sterile instruments.)

In the meantime I'll throw this one at you:

10 year old boys are difficult to buy presents for. My nephew recently celebrated his birthday and we were a bit stumped. I went through several suggestions and actually bought and returned two presents before I landed on a Super Soaker. One of the brainstormed gifts was a Magic 8 Ball. First I tried to decide if it was cool, and then Tyler wondered aloud if my brother and sister-in-law might frown upon the whole possibly Satanic element. "You know," Tyler mused, "If they are Satanic, you got to think the Prince of Darkness gets frustrated with his options." We imagined the fourteen-year-old boy faced with the possibilities of the Internet. "Should I look at pornography?" he asks the 8 ball. Lucifer reaches out from his realm of darkness.

"Reply hazy. Try again later."

Chess

I'm sorry to go directly against Laura's posting boycott and ruin what, otherwise, could have been the boringest month in Howe Thoughts history. But, this one was too good to pass up.

As an offshoot of his Stratego obsession, Talmage has recently enquired about chess. He found a chess set at Papa's house. I tried to convince him it wasn't the right game for him by telling him that's a game for twenty-year olds. He insisted, so I taught him the best I knew how. I had to keep running to Papa to ask the rules.

After his second game (and second defeat) featured in this video, Talmage regained his composure by saying, "Maybe you keep beating me because you're over twenty, and I'm not yet."

"Maybe that's right," I answered.

This Message is Supposed to Stay On Top, TYLER

We're going private. If you would like to continue reading this blog, please leave your email address in a comment on this post, or email me at lauraphowe@gmail.com.

Towel Cupboard

We'll Keep This Message Up Until the End of the Month

We're going private. If you would like to still read this blog, either leave your email address in a comment on this post, or email me at lauraphowe@gmail.com.

Happy Easter 2010

If I End Up in the Telestial Kingdom, I'm Blaming the Digital Revolution

I can't get a signal for conference on my TV. Curse you HDTV!

In the meantime, do I really have no immmediate family members who read and would like to continue reading this blog? I've been sorely misled.

And For Those of You Who Don't Want to Read Laura's Long-Winded Explanation Below

We're going private. If you would like to still read this blog, either leave your email address in a comment on this post, or email me at lauraphowe@gmail.com.

Don't You Hate When You See This Message on People's Blogs? Me too.

One of my mother's greatest talents is that she believes her children are very smart. This doesn't necessarily mean they are very smart. But she is certain that her children are more intelligent than all the other children. As a child, I trusted her, which meant I believed I was very smart, too. And somehow, whether it was due to my own ability or the confidence in my ability bestowed to me by my mother, I did well in school.

Similarly, my mom has always known I was an excellent writer. I remember once in high school lying on my bed reading a book--probably A Tree Grows in Brooklyn or Dicey's Song--and hearing my mom shout up a flight of stairs, "LAURA!! Come downstairs IMMEDIATELY!!!" I raced down the stairs, panicked that her office was on fire, or that the computer had exploded, or, at the very least, she had run out of Diet Dr. Pepper. "What!?" I exclaimed bursting into the basement. "You're going to win Reflections!" she announced, joyfully handing me the entry form.

I did win the Reflections contest.

But I'm not sure that I loved writing. I just believed my mom that I was good at it. My best friend Shelley spent hours chronicling her thoughts, her feelings flowing through images that leave me pondering them fifteen years later. (She still does.) Shelley loved to write. I envied her. I didn't love to write. My mom just knew I was good at it. Something felt a little false, rang a little hollow. My writing was a breach of integrity.

In college I grew satisfied with my writing. I still sent essays to my mom--academic essays balanced with logos, pathos, and ethos so that I could convince my audience of the correctness of my argument, that Mrs. Freake and Baby Mary was fraught with Puritan propaganda, or that the fine arts museum was truly the best place to display Navajo baskets. I hated gutting through a five, ten, twenty-page essay, but in the end I felt what my mom felt, that I had written well. And that, though it wasn't quite as honest as loving writing, was something I could be proud of.

This blog, this little space I've carved out in the internet world, has made an honest woman out of me. I still write for my mom, because sometimes I need to believe that I'm an excellent writer, better than all the other internet writers, though I don't think that's true. But now I write for a whole host of people. I write for Chelle, a tangential turned good friend who I know mostly through writing. If I run into her at the store tomorrow, I will smile and we will say hi, but on our blogs, we share with each other whatever ideas are taking up space in our heads. I write for my cousin Kari, who was my older and elegant relation who I didn't really know, but admired. But through our blogs, I feel she knows me better now, and now I know her. I write for that unnamed guy I went out with a couple times in college who I wonder from time to time how he's doing, and think that if he wonders from time to time how I'm doing, he can find out here. I write for people I know. I write for people I little know. I write for people I don't know at all.

This blog has made me love to write.

Tyler is going to be a principal this fall. (Insert celebratory band music here.) With all the recent education on the news, we've started to realize that he's now a public figure. As brother-in-law Scott R. pointed out, a perusal of our recent blog posts could yield mild child pornography, a tribute to guy love, me filming while driving, and a whole bunch of rather personal stuff that probably shouldn't be made known to the public at large. So despite my desires to the contrary, we're making this blog private.

I know I flatter myself by thinking that there are actually people who read this blog. But if you do read this blog, I'd love for you to continue reading this blog. If you are Chelle, Kari, or the guy I went on a couple dates with in college, let me know. If you are one of those people I know, one of those people I little know, or one of those people I don't know at all, I'd love to still share my thoughts. Either leave your name and email address attached to this post, or if you feel uncomfortable publishing your email address on the world wide web, send me an email at lauraphowe@gmail.com.

And if you're my mom, I'll add you, too. Because I still need to believe I'm a good writer.

Sense and Sensibility

I think the only really appropriate adjective to describe Jane Austen is "delightful." Yes, I am aware that I overuse the word. But it's Jane Austen. I dare you to read her without musing to yourself, "This truly is delightful." (And yes, you'll muse the word "truly.")

Here is the passage I found the most delightful on this read:

"Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week; for whatever other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a week should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor's company, or suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and the future; for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of incessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in common between any two rational creatures, yet, with lovers it is different. Between them no subject is finished, no communication is even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over."

Remember that? When there weren't enough hours in the day to discuss all that needed to be discussed, so you and your intended had to stay up until the wee hours of the morning to get all that discussion discussed? What with all the talking and the making out and the more talking to override the sexual tension, and then a little more talking about more discussion, Tyler and I didn't get to bed until 2:00. And that's after he very responsibly left my apartment at midnight because we were Very Obedient Followers of the BYU Honor Code. FYI: A six-month Mormon engagement is too long an engagement.

Also delightful is Emma Thompson and her movie adaptation of Sense and Sensibility. A classic. Go watch it with your lover and then discuss.

Maybe After Tyler Posts Five Videos in a Row, It's Time for Laura to Write Something

Nothing makes me happier than Talmage loving Asher.

I was, well, panicked frankly about adding another child to the mix. I worried that Talmage would be jealous and angry and feel all of those feelings that What to Expect told me he would feel. I was immensely relieved when Talmage told me he wanted another baby. "How many more babies would you like?" I asked him. Talmage furrowed his brow before he suggested optimistically, "Um, twenty-one babies."

He's grown up a little, and so the number of desired babies has decreased. Talmage would now like four more babies. Besides the obvious I'm not sure I'd like to raise six children concern, this raises big problems. Namely, I'm not sure Tyler and I can name four more children. I've referenced Tyler's and my struggle with naming children here, here, and most recently here. (And if you want to know, Eva, Mae, and Catherine are now off the list.) So to resolve this issue, Talmage has decided to step up and take over naming responsibilities for the family. He's thought of a good boy name. Wintertime. If the anticipated baby is a girl? Summertime. Ooo! And he's got a great one that would work for either a girl OR a boy! Nothing. We'd like to introduce you to our baby: Nothing Wintertime Howe. (Or as the case may be, Nothing Summertime Howe.)

But, as I've noted before, no child has been conceived. Tal's a little impatient with my pace. So he's taken to giving the present members of his family alternate identities. He, for example, is Brade. Daddy is Grade. Asher is Hade. I (lucky me) am Lazorblade. These new names come with superpowers as well. I (Lazorblade) am able to break lightbulbs. And also, I have a gun.

Macho Men

Old School Like the Old School

Classic footage I dug up of me observing the floods of 1983.

And He's Mysteriously Leaving on the Second Seventh Night . . .

Noah and Poah

Tandem

Not That We're Announcing

Tyler has thought of a new boy name. And you are supposed to keep an open mind. And maybe imagine the yet-to-be-conceived man child as the president of the United States. Ready?

Horton. Horton Howe.

And you wonder how we came up with Talmage and Asher.

FYI

If you call us at home, Tyler now only responds to the title of Principal Howe. Or "O Captain My Captain."

"Mr. Principal" works just fine for me, too.

Because I Was Apparently WILD in High School

Tyler: So I learned more about the world today.

Laura: Okay.

Tyler: So there's these kids, who go to parties. And they don't drink at the parties. They do drugs. Ectasy. I can't really remember what they're called.

Laura: Raves.

Tyler: What?

Laura: They're called raves.

Tyler: How did you know that?

Laura: People from high school went to raves.

Tyler: Not at my high school.

Laura: Tyler, we went to the same high school.

Tyler: No, cause you always know all this stuff. Maybe you learned it in fifth and sixth grade when you were at a different elementary.

Laura: I learned about raves at Upland Terrace?

Tyler: I think so.

Laura: Tyler, you don't know about raves because of your adorable naivete.

Tyler: [...] Could we maybe call it my hot naivete instead?

Because Laura Needs a Little Help Getting to 10 Posts This Month

The way I see it, the iPod Touch is the absolute antithesis to those cute family-promoting Mormon commercials.

Daddy: Talmage, which do you like more: Daddy or the iPod?

Talmage: The iPod.

Daddy: Wait, I asked it wrong. If you only got to keep one, Daddy or the iPod, which would you keep?

Talmage: The iPod.

Daddy: No, wait. What if the one you didn't pick went away forever and ever, and you never saw it again? Which would you pick then: Daddy or the iPod?

Talmage: The iPod.

Daddy: Well, if I had to pick between Talmage and the iPod, I'd pick Talmage.

Talmage: I'd pick the iPod.

When Trying to Decide Whether or Not You Like Your New Haircut, Don't Mention in the Same Breath That It Looks Just Like Your Sister's.

It won't go over well. Trust me.

Is It Really True That It Took Me Two Months To Finish A Fantastic Book That I Love? Yep.

Do you have someone you look up to? That you think of when you make mothering decisions, that you hope to emulate when decorating your house? That you choose the same favorite color as, just because she's adorable when she talks about red?

Hi Sarah! It's nice to be your sister-in-law.

Now first off, I'm surrounded with amazing people, namely each and every one of my sisters and sisters-in-law, my mother and mother-in-law, my cousins, all my friends. I'm blessed like that. No buts about it.

But Sarah somehow crams her day full of all the things I hope to accomplish, and I'm not sure how she does it, and that kind of balance just kind of floors me. I'm not jealous, and I promise I don't feel inadequate, and I'm sure Sarah struggles, too, but I would like to refinish my front room table, read Anna Karenina, raise beautiful (seriously beautiful) children, weed around my hastas, and kiss my doctor husband goodbye as he spends days (and nights)at the hospital, all in the same 24-hour period. Okay, that's an exaggeration. Sometimes it takes her 48 hours.

Sigh.

I'm not there yet.

So I've done a MUCH better job at housekeeping in the past few months than is typical. I'm very proud of myself and I'm pleased at the homey feel it brings to the Howe home life. But I don't read all that much anymore. Maybe when Tyler finishes this program. Maybe.

My cousin-in-law Cheree has a mother who raised something like 12 children. And that kind of mothering required serious cleaning, so much so that in her older life when she wanted to take a vacation and needed a passport, she had no fingerprints to speak of. SHE HAD NO FINGERPRINTS. Scrubbing her children's smudges and marks and smears, wiping the grimy prints off her walls and tables and chairs, she washed off her own, losing her identity, her self in her great sacrifice to her home. Okay that's my more poetic rendering of it, but doesn't a small part of you want to be the fingerprintless woman? To make such a home?

I looked forward to reading An American Childhood at the end of everyday, caught up in the words and images. I loved keeping company with Annie Dillard, nervous that at some point her mother was going to die, or her sister was going to get cancer. And they didn't. She had a beautiful childhood. And she wrote a beautiful memoir. I mentally highlighted several passages, but the following quotation seemed to strike a chord in my 12-year-old heart, my reading-on-Saturday-morning-(or afternoon, or evening)-when-I-should-be-cleaning-my-room heart. (And it made me proud and grown-up that even while 29-year-old me longed to still be reading instead of vacuuming the rug, I was, instead, vacuuming the rug.)

Parents have no idea what the children are up to in their bedrooms [...]. They are reading the same paragraphs over and over, dizzy with gratification as the young lovers find each other in the French fort, as the boy avenges his father, as the sound of muskets in the woods signals the end of the siege. They could not move if the house caught fire. They hate the actual world. The actual world is a kind of tedious plane where dwells, and goes to school, the body, the boring body which houses the eyes to read the books and houses the heart the books enflame. The very boring body seems to require and inordinately big, very boring world to keep it up, a world where you have to spend far too much time, have to do time like a prisoner, always looking for a chance to slip away, to escape back home to books, or escape back home to any concentration--fanciful, mental, or physical--where you can lose your self at last. Although I was hungry all the time, I could not bear to hold still and eat; it was too dull a thing to do, and had no appeal either to courage or to imagination. The blinding sway of their inner lives makes children immoral. They find things good insofar as they are thrilling, inso far as they render them ever more feverish and breathless, ever more limp and senseless on the bed.

On a side note, how on earth do you write like that?



So again, due to my beautiful friend Hana who regularly leaves me books on my doorstep, I've been reading a lot of fantasy. I remember reading Robin McKinley as a child (I'm pretty sure I read The Hero and the Crown (a Newberry winner) and Beauty) and I liked reading this book because it felt straight out of my childhood. You know, juvenile fantasy before Twilight. A little slower, a little less sexual tension.

I liked it.

If You Think This Email Exchange Is Funny, You're Probably a Paulsen

Friendly Ward Member: Just a reminder for the Breakfast with the Bishopric activity on March 6th at 9am in the church Gym. Will each of you make a list of 10 fun facts about you that we can use in a get to know you game? I need the list as soon as you can get to it. Thank you all!

Dad: I don’t think there are any fun facts in my character. What would you suggest?

Laura: Loves to read, but only nonfiction. The only fiction I can remember him ever reading is Harry Potter.
Has run everyday of his life since he was 25.
Is allergic to peanuts.
Believes water while exercising is for wusses.
Is 1/2 Norwegian.
That grumpy look on his face? It's only for show.
Can muscle his way through just about any food. Expired milk? Sure. Just not the peanuts.
Loves to hike and backpack. And read while he's resting.
Has no interest in fashion, whatsoever.
Only owns black socks.
Loves his daughter Laura the most.

Sean:I think he also read Eragon.
Is occasionally whimsical, albeit in an unvarying way: "See you in the funny papers!"
Has gone so far as to voluntarily take a day or two off work at his own initiative on the holidays instead of being told to do it by his wife or forced by the hand of fate in the form of a wedding or a funeral.
Skis old school on long boards (impresses the crusty oldster ski bums at Alta)
Used to read while freeway driving until it dawned on him that it just might not comply with either common sense or the subtle nuances of the legal code.
His favorite t-shirt reads, "So many books, so little time."
His favorite t-shirt should read, "Engineers do it in CAD first" or possibly "You know you're an engineer if you have no life and can prove it mathematically"
Loves his semi-beautiful daughter Laura.

Scott: Once offered to mortgage the house to help finance his oldest daughter's college education.
Actually did have to mortgage the house to finance youngest daughter's college education.

Oh Well, Daddy's My Favorite, Too

Words Asher has tried to say:

1. Uh Oh
2. Da-Da
3. Lu
4. Woof
5. Ball
6. I'm Hungry (Mmmmmm)
7. Night-night

Word Asher has no interest in even attempting:

1. Mama

Presenting the Many Talents of Asher Howe

Asher Turns 1

Dizzy

To Which I Responded "My Humor Doesn't Translate Well to Four Year Old."

"Daddy, you're like one thousand funny. Mommy, you're like two. The number two. Two funny."

Thoughts While Doing Wednesday Night Dishes

Citrus roast chicken,
mesquite barbeque pork loin,
peppers
zucchini
red onions and
squash,
all oiled and salted and
dripping
dripping
dripping
their juices and fat
down to the bottom of this roasting pan where it
bakes.
Here I am
scraping and
scraping and
scraping and
flaking minute little pieces of charcoaly food,
wondering aloud,
Isn't my life
worth more than this pan
another of which I could probably purchase
from Williams Sonoma
or Home Goods
or Smiths?

Get Dressed

Crawling

To One Who is In North Carolina. Or Maybe It's New York. I'm Not Really Sure and That Pains Me.

Dear Shelley:

I'm sorry to tell you that my husband doesn't like pickles. He is, however, very much like we imagined our husbands to be. He is fine, and he is handsome, and he treats me very well. He is not the twin of your husband, something I distantly recall being in the plan. My two sons, however, both adore pickles, and that came as a bit of a shock. At least it was a shock in Asher's case after I plopped a pickle down on his high chair tray when he grunted for it for a solid five minutes. "There. Let's see how you like that," I condescended with all the confidence of a mother who knows how things would turn out. Because mothers ALWAYS know how things will turn out. I was wrong.

Has it ever occured to you that the best parts of our friendship have always been written? When we've been distant, it was always a letter that reminded me how much of me you formed. Or it was a journal entry that you trustingly shared with me that let me know how deeply you cared about whatever it was you cared about. Or it was a late night tome that we addressed to some kid in Vermont that you met at the Hill Cumorah pageant. Who else gets hyper and then decides to write letters? No one. That's the truth.

And now you have two children that I barely know and one I don't know at all. Most of the time this is okay, because Tyler is now my best friend, as I know Matt is yours. It is good to have husbandly best friends. But there's just something about the original, you know? The best friend you imagine when you see the broken-in-two best-friend heart necklace and think, I should give this to my BEST friend. Or the best friend you imagine when you want someone to talk you into going rollerskating; because that's what best friends do. Or the best friend you imagine when you want to write a blog post to your best friend. Somehow I don't see Tyler wearing the heart necklace.

You and I are bad and being friends at a distance. There. I said it. But you know what? I've been improving myself lately. I aced day one of cleaning my kitchen nightly, and I've written three daily blog posts in a row. So I think I'm ready to give it a try. I am very sorry for ten years of distance. Will you forgive me the letters I didn't write you on my mission and the letters I didn't write you on yours? Will you forgive me the correspondence I failed to keep up while you were in Manhatten falling in love with your husband? Will you forgive me the questions I never put in to email when we were trying to figure out how to be mothers? Will you forgive me the cards of sympathy I didn't send when Matthew was in the hospital with botilism?

Otherwise, I'll continue thinking of you everytime I open up a jar of pickles. Because one really needs a best friend who loves pickles.

Love,

Laura

So I'm Gonna Blog More. It's Still Not a New Year's Resolution.

I was never so beautiful as I was in Brazil.

I like to think I'm pretty attractive. I'm tall. My nailbeds are stunning. I have blue eyes and blond hair. (Despite what my hair looks like in my new profile picture. Marissa called me at 10:00 last night and said, "I was nervous to call you late, but it was an EMERGENCY. Did you dye your hair reddish brown?" Nope. It was a trick of the light.) Blue eyes and blond hair work pretty well for me, much like they work for 78% of the Utah population.

But in southern Brazil, where I lived for four months after I graduated from high school, blue eyes and blond hair were downright HOT. I was the most attractive person the Brazilians had ever seen outside of the movies. Scratch that, I was maybe the most attractive person the Brazilians had ever seen, inside OR outside the movies. That attractability earned me and my little sister Marissa (who also has blue eyes and blond hair) all sorts of ardent admirers.

That ardent admiration was expressed primarily through loud catcalls from passing cars. Marissa and I ran in the morning to the tune of "I lovee you." Only slightly less ardent was the other profession of undying devotion: "The book is on the table." Every Brazilian took an English class in school and they all know that (even though they don't remember any other English) if the earth collides into the sun, that book will still be on the table. And also, they know that if you ever run into a blond-haired, blue-eyed American, shouting "The book is on the table," maybe accompanied by a few Anglo expletives, will guarantee your way into her heart.



Don't you feel both beautiful and wooed?

My New Year's Ruminations

So, I'm typing this while sitting in my living room, staring at my mantlepiece with the letters N O E L displayed proudly. These festive greetings are surrounded by glittery bows and gold and red baubles. Hanging from the mantle are four green and red stockings. One for Daddy, one for Mommy, one for Talmage, and one for Asher. There is also a basket of Christmas books. And a large Santa Claus.

And you know what? I have no immediate plans to take the decorations down.

The tree went down December 26. That is because the tree died circa November 28. Tyler has a tally of trees I keep alive vs. trees I kill. The way he figures, I've got one more year before he nips the fire hazard in the bud and buys a fake tree. The way I figure, Santa Claus will be placing a lump of coal in his stocking. But of course that threat looses it's teeth when it's January 20. Which brings us back to my original point: It's January 20 and I still haven't undecorated my house.

On a semi-related note, I didn't make New Years Resolutions this year. Not that I don't believe in change, because I do. Is it arrogant to say that I'm pretty satisfied with my life right now? I feel like I achieved a pretty good balance this year and I'm satisfied with my health habits, my spiritual habits, and my mothering habits. That my be the first time in my life I can really say that. Well, now that I think about it, I could probably make better goals in my serving others habits. And maybe some better dog-owner habits. Perhaps I could establish better wifely habits. My housekeeping habits could always use some work. I guess I could blog a little more frequently.

And maybe I could take down the Christmas decorations. But you know what? For tonight I going to choose to be satisfied. I'm going to embrace this Wednesday night when I feel balanced. I might even put on a little "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas." I'll talk to you about the ornaments come February.

Mulan - And Two Tone-Deaf Howes

This is an audio recording done a few months ago that I just stumbled across tonight. Unfrotunately, Blogger doesn't let me do an audio file alone, so I had to make it into a video. Consequently, the video portion is extremely uncreative--sorry.

Snowshoe-ing

Howe Thoughts: The Good Parts Version

My little sister Marissa teaches a fourth-fifth split at an elementary school. This means that for the first half of the day, she teaches both fourth graders and fifth graders literacy, and then the classes switch while she teaches just fifth graders math for the second half of the day. Most of her students have two teachers.

Her students were kind and generous with gifts before Christmas break. Her colleague's students were even more kind and generous. "Did you see what Tommy gave us?" her team teacher asked. Marissa followed her over to her stack of loot to see a large assortment of Harry and David gourmet foods.




"I don't remember a gift tower," Marissa said hesitantly. "Maybe I'll go check again."

Marissa went over to her stash to find Tommy's gift to her:



A chia pet.

For my own personal cataloging history, I wanted to chronicle my favorites of 2009 (at least my favorites of the things I track on this blog).

Favorite Books I Read This Year(in no particular order):

Kristin Lavransdatter by Sigrid Undset
Bridge of Sighs by Richard Russo
A River Runs Through It and Other Storiesby Norman Maclean
Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt
Ender’s Shadow by Orson Scott Card
Fablehaven (particularly the third book in the series) by Brandon Mull
Peter and the Starcatchers by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson
The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery

Tyler's videos:

Asher: Five Posts in One Day
Hide and Seek
Why You Want to Live at the Howe Home
Asher Begins to Laugh
Happy Fourth of July
Stand
Talmage Turns Four
Our Very Own Maradona
Weight Lifting
Turkey Bowl

My favorites of my own writing. I know this is totally self-serving. I'm doing it anyway. (Is it a shame that I had to reach all the way back to September before I found an entry I liked?):

On Nursing and Panicking (The Hallmarks of New Motherhood)

What to Expect would describe Asher as more of Gourmet. He'll latch on for about 5 seconds, get my milk flowing, and then pull off and try to enjoy the firehose squirting his face at his leisure. He'll sample a mouthful of Mama's Milk (the newest rage at all the finest newborn restaurants) smack his lips satisfactorily, and then maybe spit it out like a wine-taster after he's fully analyzed the bouquet and body. I feel like I've given birth to a snobby Parisian milk connoisseur and at one point he's going to send the milk back if he doesn't find it to his liking.

Just Pretend the Date Attached to This Entry Reads March 17

The most obnoxious thing about this family history obsession is that I am aware of how complex family relations work and feel obligated to explain them to you. "This is Joan," someone might introduce me. "She's my mother's cousin's granddaughter. She's like my fourth cousin, or something." "No," I'll correct. "She's your second cousin once removed. Would you like directions to the Family History Center? My name is Laura."

Here’s My Advice: Stick to Your Standards

If I had to point to one thing wrong with the world, one thing to blame all the ills of society on, it would be the ubiquitous white truck who prowls the street in the summertime looking for pudgy faced kids and their helpless and hapless mothers. Sure, there was a time when I, too, felt a rush of excitement when I heard the tinkly chime of "When the Saints Go Marching In." That was before I realized the militant persistence that qualifies ice cream men to make their $6.55 an hour. I have successfully ignored one stubborn worker who made four tours around the south parking lot of a playground, only to have him enter the north parking lot immediately after. There's only so much stiff mothering you can dole out before you cave and spend $4.50 on a Mickey Mouse Ice Cream bar whose red dye will permanently stain your clothing.

In Memoriam

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.

To Compete With Tyler’s ADD

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.

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

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.

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

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."

Much to the Chagrin of Our Friends and Family

So we did an online search. And people? YOU LIED TO ME. Cell phones cost upwards of forty dollars a month. And that's the cheapest plan we could find. And even more shocking? NONE OF YOU ARE SHOCKED BY THAT. How on earth do you pay that, people? Do you have any idea how much orange juice I could buy that I currently avoid at the store because it's too expensive? A WHOLE LOTTA ORANGE JUICE. And not even the concentrate stuff. I could buy the straw in the actual orange, fresh from the fruit stand, with enough pulp swimming around so the viscosity measures somewhere around molten glass, orange juice.