Why You Want To Live At the Howe Home

Cause we are FUN.

Hide and Seek

Practicing What I Preach

So, Tyler brought it to my attention that I don't post anymore.

I have a couple of flimsy excuses.

1. I'm busy right now.

2. I've been expending my creativity in ambitious mothering.

I don't think either of these hold water. For one, being busy shouldn't cut off your inspiration, which is the real problem. I have writer's block. Which brings us to the other excuse, which is that all my ideas are being used up. I don't really believe that. Is there a limit to creativity? I sure hope not.

I teach writing, so I know the solution to writer's block. It's to write. I've never actually lived the dictum to write everyday, but I'm going to try to. I have an activity I do in my writing classes called a rush write. The goal is to keep writing for an alloted amount of time and not stop. If I can't think of anything to say, I write I can't think of anything to say over and over until something comes.

Here goes.

Talmage and I went to the zoo today. One of the elephants is pregnant. As I looked at her with her sagging skin, her heaving belly that seemed to sink heavily on her wrinkly knees, I thought about how she was the ultimate vision of pregnancy. I mean can you imagine a better or more accurate simile than I feel like pregnant elephant? And she isn't even a metaphor.

I think I'm going to ask for a baby elephant for Christmas.

A brief look at the high school students attending the zoo today confirmed one thing: short shorts are back.

I can't think of anything to say.

At one of the baby showers before Talmage was born, a neighbor gave me Baby Mozart, one thrilling episode in the Baby Einstein series. I've always felt a little bit silly watching Baby Mozart. I felt like I was one of THOSE mothers, who knows that their child is a genius at T minus 34 weeks, or 6 weeks after gestation and so plays Beethoven to their belly and signs them up for baby yoga classes so they can grow peacefully with their impending intelligence. I felt even sillier when I purchased (of my own volition, mind you) Baby Einstein Language Nursery, a program that accompanied departing toy trains and swirling Mobius strips with nursery rhymes in various languages. I could even hear the implied infomercial that accompanied the program: "I simply placed my 6 month old in front of the screen for four hours a day and she came out speaking Japanese! Konichiwa Baby Einstein!"

"Einstein flunked out of school, you morons!" Is what I wanted to yell at the hand model who methodically removed the color spheres from the toy tower.

But the fact is, when I was taking care of my three month old baby and my 6 week old nephew whose infant excema was as yet untreated, I welcomed the eery purple blobs that dripped seductively across the screen. Talmage was mezmerized. Stockton was mezmerized. I was mezmerized. And The Magic Flute chimed somewhere in the background.

Baby Einstein disappeared from our life when it became apparent that Talmage's interest was waning. Which was a good thing, because I felt guilty introducing my son to TV that young. That is until he saw Toy Story and that love for 2 dimensional entertainment was rekindled. And Pixar? That's something I can get behind.

Talmage watched a show today on the way to the zoo. We went on a trip to Moab a couple of weeks ago and hooked up the portable DVD player in the Camry. Anyone who knows me shouldn't be surprised that the player is still in there. Anyone who knows me shouldn't be surprised that the 64 oz cup purchased at the truck stop in Green River is still in there. Anyway, Talmage wanted to watch a show and I passed back the folder of DVDs. He requested Baby Mozart and I obliged. I had only heard a couple of bars of Eine kleine Nachtmusik when I felt the old righteous (and yes, hypocritical) indignation well up in me.

It only swelled when an older and more consumer minded Talmage said, "Look at that train! I want one of those trains next week!"

Baby Einstein. Toys R' Us's ultimate infomercial.

Well, look at that! Rush writing works.

Keepers of the House

This book ended angry.

I've certainly been angry at the end of novels. I've been mad at the characters choices; I've been upset that an author would choose a certain ending. I've even been mad simply because a book ended. But I've never felt the hot fiery fury from the characters themselves that Abigail Howland seeths at the end of Keepers of the House by Shirley Ann Grau.

Maybe it took me by surprise because the rest of the novel seemed so peaceful. Sure, the hypocrisy of segregation was always present in the novel's tension and even fueled the plot at times, but it just seemed a part of the sweltering environment of the South. Sweltering like a day at the pool might be. The heat just seems an accepted variable, but it doesn't seem to motivate anyone to action, it more wears out pool-goers and makes them tired.

Maybe it took me by surprise, because Abigail seemed so composed throughout the rest of the novel, but seems wild with vengeance by the end.

But I think it took me by surprise because most novels wrap themselves up, with the character having learned something, that something bringing them to a more complete and more peaceful state. But Abigail is not peaceful, and I'm not sure what she's learned other than her husband's a jerk and people are not kind. She says, "I know that I shall hurt as much as I have been hurt. I shall destroy as much as I have lost. It's a way to live, you know. It's a way to keep your heart ticking under the sheltering arches of your ribs. And that's enough for now."

How long can someone be fueled by anger? The historian in me wants to say not that long. The girl I was wants to say not that long. My Dad once said that he admired that I could be mad for about two and a half minutes. After that I'm all better. I'm not sure that's true anymore. The older I get the longer I can be angry for. But it always burns itself out.

Maybe I've just never been that mad. Maybe I've never lost that much. I hope I never get acquainted with that kind of fury.

Easter Egg Hunt

Since Laura apparently has no further intentions of ever posting again:

The Real Madness Is That I Won

Moab 2009

Five Little Ducks

A Conversation Between Tyler and His Sister Maquel Regarding Her Son Stockton's Latest Masterpiece

Maquel: "Um, did Talmage get some marker* on your bedroom wall?"
Tyler: "I don't think so, why?"



*For the record, Expo Dry Erase Marker doesn't come off walls.

To My Friend Monica Who Recently Started Reading This Blog and Who Isn't Certain If She Wants Kids: You Should Stop Reading Now

In LDS Church culture we have a saying: "the ox is in the mire." Typically, members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints refrain from a lot of activities on Sunday. Most obviously, we don't work and we try to help other people not work, so we don't shop. Of course, there are times when it seems imperative to shop on Sunday, and when that happens, we comfort ourselves with a question from the New Testament: "Which of you shall have an ass or an ox fallen into a pit, and will not straightway pull him out on the sabbath day?" Are you going to let that ox die just because it's Sunday? Nope, you pull that sucker right out of the mire.

Tyler has coined a slightly less well known but far more permissive adage. When we were first married I got sick. You should be aware that when I get sick, I feel more sick than the rest of the world (and don't try to convince me otherwise). I get very very sick. I had spent that Sunday planning my very lovely funeral (Maquel, you will sing Climb Every Mountain) due to my death by sinus infection. Tyler decided to take me to Instacare after I exploded when he invited our friends to bring us dinner and I screeched "They're coming over?!?!" in a whiny voice that could rival most toddlers and went and cried in the bathtub. On the way to the doctor's Tyler suggested we go to Carl's Jr. I told him the ox was stuck in the Instacare mire, not the Carl's Jr mire and he retorted, "Laura, the Sabbath is like a stick. Once it's broken, it's broken."

This past Sunday the ox was in the mire. The mire was Talmage and the Hiroshima sized disaster that was our drive home from Moab. The ox was my very tenuous grip on sanity. At one point I pulled a David Paulsen and left my toddler on the side of the road (with his father--I'm not THAT abusive) just outside of Helper, Utah and told him he could walk home. Later, Talmage needed to go to the bathroom. Now Talmage is mostly potty-trained. One of the functions he can do %100 in the potty, while the other he prefers to do in a diaper underneath the dining room table (I leave the specifics to your imagination). Now we had a diaper, but just past Soldier's Summit on the side of the highway there were no dining room tables to be found. When he channeled the demonic male voice from The Exorcist and said, "I'm gonna break your car," I decided it was time to pull my sanity out of the toddler's surprisingly firm and grumpy grasp.

We stopped at the gas station and bought treats. A lot of them. I yoked my sanity to a couple of chocolate milks, some donettes, and a Gatorade and yanked. Monsters Inc helped as well.

But the whole trip wasn't such a disaster. We had a lovely time climbing to see Delicate Arch (I told Talmage the Tale of the Legendary Love of Alonzo Tyler and Laura Melissa at the spot where we got engaged) and accomplished a new feat of motherhood when I climbed through the Fiery Furnance by scaling down a sandstone wall with a newborn strapped to my chest. But my personal favorite moments were my D list celebrity sightings:

Wasatch Jr. High band teacher Paul Watson whose image is missing from the world wide web.

And this guy:


A bit actor whose scene was deleted from The Office Season 4 Episode 17. Steve Carell tried to recruit him to work at Dunder Mifflin. Steve Carell, people! I ate a continental breakfast in the same Holiday Inn Express lobby area as someone who was in a deleted Steve Carell scene.

I'm available to sign autographs.

For Keeping Us In The Black

I know it's lame to complain about being poor during a recession when many of my dear friends have lost their jobs and both Tyler and I still are working. Also, there's a difference between being poor because we chose to work for non-profit organizations and poor because a spot isn't available for you. We feel very lucky. Which is the point of this entry.

Tyler and I work in education. For the first couple years of Tyler's career, an elementary school teacher's salary placed us below the poverty level. I started teaching at BYU Salt Lake Center because I wanted to, but, incidentally, it was kind of necessary. We live pretty modestly but we enjoy some major luxuries that should be entirely out of our means. Like food.

But we have never felt the rigors of the poverty line, and this is because we are surrounded by kind and generous people. I want to send out a great big THANK YOU to our family and friends who take care of us.

In the last little while, Talmage has learned that his parents provide nothing for him. He has taken to asking "Who gave this to me?" about various posessions. Here is a public thank you from Talmage for all the things he noticed this week (certainly not exhaustive of all the help we receive).

1. Thank you to Aunt Chandra for a torquoise, Hawaiian-print, button-down shirt.
2. Thank you to Grandma and Grandpa for Daddy's video camera.
3. Thank you to Aunt Barbara for a T-Rex.
4. Thank you to WH who gave clothes to Abi Hammer who gave Asher a Winnie-the-Pooh themed dressing gown.
5. Thank you to Juli Beaird for an outdoor mini-golf kit used to build indoor castles.
6. Thank you to Nana for Asher's sweater.
7. Thank you to Mama-kell for a Curious George book.
8. Thank you to Abel for Kid K'Nex.
9. Thank you to Collin and Ida for various race cars.

While Talmage was playing with his train set he asked me, "Who gave this to me?" I was excited and proud to take credit when he said, "Oh! I remember! Santa gave this to me!"

10. Thank you to Santa for Talmage's train set.

A Bit of An Understatement As Far As Headlines Go

Death Raises Concerns

But not as many concerns as my greasy hair and smeared mascara in the below video published on the world wide web.

Treasure Hunt

Something I'll Remind Talmage of Saying When He and Asher Are Fighting Over Who Gets to be Bowser in Mario Kart

"Asher's so cute. We picked the right baby."

Just Pretend the Date Attached to This Entry Reads March 17

My name is Laura Paulsen Howe. I'm LDS and I'm a little obsessed with family history.

That's not really the whole confession. I'm like early-80s-when-I-still-have-enough-vitality-to-make-it-to-the-Family-History-Center-daily obsessed. I dream of having a room in our house decorated with photographs of various ancestors where I can receive inspiration on Thomas Murray's mortal whereabouts. Maybe Talmage's room will do. Since he would like to sleep in my bed nightly, I'm sure he wouldn't mind. Tyler can sleep on the couch.

This love comes directly from my Grandma Ramona, the woman who has quizzed me much of my life on my ancestors. This tendency became even more funny when Tyler married into my family, and she began quizzing Tyler on my ancestors, too. "Now Tyler," she would begin. "Who is Laura's great-great-great-great grandfather who cut stone for the St. George temple?" Even more funny is the disgust I'd feel as I condescended, "Clearly, Tyler, it's William Fawcett. First wagon into the St. George valley." Obviously.

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."

Tyler's lack of knowledge about ancestors extends to his own family history. This was made apparent as we canvased family names in a search for what to call Asher. We had already discarded names from art history, names from hit 90s TV shows (Chandler didn't get as much consideration as I would have liked), names from early Mormon apostles, and last names of early Mormon apostles. Tyler could go back one generation of names (Darris and Gail) and two generations (Alonzo, Mary, Noel, and Renee) but when I asked if he knew Noel's parents' names he said, "Sure. Great-grandpa and Great-grandma Howe." Our child's name could have been Asher Great-grandpa Howe.

I also like to believe that personality traits are genetically passed down fully intact, oh, six generations or so. This was made clear in a conversation with my mom this past week. Mom's stake is doing a Pioneer Trek later this summer and they were going to walk a portion of the Mormon Trail to practice. A snowstorm had been forecast and Mom was panicked. She envisioned the Mormon Trail going up over Little Mountain, and ended up wearing full Everest regalia to walk through the streets of Salt Lake City. But her original thought was that there was no way the stake was going to make her trek through the snow.

"I'm sure they'll cancel it," she said with enough confidence to hide her trepidation.

"Mom, people hike trails in the winter all the time," I retorted.

"Well, this is a church function. The kids will get pneumonia."

"It's not going to be that snowy, Mom. You'll enjoy it."

"Well, I'm not hiking in the snow."

I finally said with exasperation. "Mom, you need to challenge some Norwegian stoicism. Abel Paulsen braved the fjords above the Artic Circle and ENJOYED it."

"I'm only married in," she explained. "My ancestors aren't from Norway."

"That's right," I realized. "Your ancestors are from Ireland. They went to the pubs in the face of adversity."

Mom eventually drowned her sorrows in a jar of Marshmallow Fluff.

In the interest of celebrating the addictive Irish parts of my personality, here's a recipe for Irish Potatoes, a festive treat to pop back while you rejoice that you aren't eating the other traditional St. Patrick's day food: corned beef and cabbage. (I mean really, it MUST have been the potato famine that caused a nation to delight in boiled greens.)

I'm Going to Go Out On a Limb and Say

Samoas are better than Thin Mints. But I can throw back a box of either (as was made abundantly clear this cookie season).

Asher David Howe: The Beginning

There is a shocking lack of black lingerie in this labor story. Sorry to disappoint.

February 7, noon. I experience The Bloody Show. I react to this about like the morbid medical term suggests--like Gary Oldman dressed as Bram Stoker's Dracula has just appeared in my bathroom. I do whatever I do when I pregnant panick; I immediately look up my symptoms in What to Expect and read that my baby is coming anytime in the next few days. I tell Tyler who immediately dismisses my symptoms as "9 month pregnant stuff."

February 7, 1:00. Lower back pain.

February 7, 1:05. Suspiciously familiar lower back pain.

February 7, 1:15. I tell Tyler I think I'm having early contractions.

February 7, 1:16. Tyler tells me he thinks I'm faking it.

February 7, 1:17. "Don't you tell me I'm faking it. Nine months pregnant stuff, huh? I've had a period a couple times in my life. When was your last period, bucko?" That's what I grumble in Tyler's general direction.

February 7, 4:00. Overhear Tyler on the phone saying, "Yeah, Laura thinks she's in labor. I don't believe it though."

February 7, 4:01. I briefly consider telling Tyler I had an affair with the mailman, so there's no way to know for sure if this is actually his baby THAT I'M IN LABOR WITH RIGHT NOW.

February 7, 8:03. We play Nintendo Super Smash Brothers at Maquel and Clark's house and a few more fireballs that average make it Tyler's way.

February 7, 9:00. Tyler and I watch The Three Amigos. "My Little Buttercup" is funny even when you're mad at your husband. Even when you're IN LABOR.

February 7, 11:30. I clean the kitchen. Tyler asks me when I'm coming to bed. I tell him when I'm done with the kitchen, because people are probably going to be coming in the house to take care of Talmage in the middle of the night when we go to the hospital, given my current state of inlaborness. Tyler indulgently rolls his eyes.

February 8, 3:20 am. My water breaks.

February 8, 3:21. I tell Tyler my water has broken, and it's time to go to the hospital. Tyler asks me if it can wait until morning.

February 8, 3:40. Despite the fact that I have meticulously timed and noted my five minute apart contractions, it's not until we are at the hospital and I've leaked through two pads that Tyler believes my water has broken. AND THAT I AM IN LABOR.

February 8, 5:00. There's nothing like the Scrubs Season 8 to get you over your marital difficulties.

February 8, 5:30 (ish). Begin to receive epidural. I say begin, because this is the longest and most grueling countdown of the labor experience. The anesthesiologist has me sit on the edge of the bed hunched over the small human in my belly, all while contractions that feel like my legs are being pulled in opposite directions old-school torture style continue at regular (and fairly close) intervals. "Don't move!" the anesthesiologist reminds me cheerfully. "That's the key to a good epidural."

February 8, 5:34. I ask the anesthesiologist if I'm supposed be feeling a pain in my hip that is simultaneously stabbing and aching, because if I am, I descend from good Norwegian stock and I can take it, but if I'm not, I'd very much like for the stabbing aching pain to end.

February 9, 5:36. "Hmmm, I'm having a hard time moving around your bones." No kidding?!?!

February 9, 5:38. I tell Tyler he needs to hold me. He tenderly grabs my hand and rubs it gently. "No," I clarify. "I need you to stand up and physically restrain me, because I am about to faint, and fainting would defeat the 'not moving' thing I have going on right now, and apparently not moving is the key to good epidural, not a quick and speedy entry."

February 9, 5:40 but what I swear was 6:00. Epidural is in.

February 9, 7:20. The nurse checks me and tells me I'm at a 7. She calls my doctor who is on her way to a medical conference in Park City and the doctor tells her she'll be there in two hours.

February 9, 7:59. I feel pressure in my lower back. I mention this to my nurse who asks me if I've experienced back labor before. No, I tell her, and it's more pressure than pain.

February 9, 8:00. My nurse checks me again.

February 9, 8:01, and this is to be read in a forced perky manner to hide overwhelming panic and stress. "Okay! Your cervix is gone! And you are stage zero to plus 1! So here's what we are going to do! We are going to call your doctor! And she is going to tell us what we are going to do!"

February 9, 8:02, still very perky, but moving quickly now. "Okay! I called your doctor! And she's in Park City! So we are going to have the doctor on call deliver your baby! And if she's not available, there has to be a doctor in this hospital! So I am going to recline your bed! And maybe gravity will work against the unstoppable pull of nature! And in the meantime, I will be preparing your room! And you just push that epidural button anytime you feel anything! Okay?!"

February 9, 8:07. "It's been five minutes! I think you can push the epidural button again!"

February 9, 8:12. "More drugs! You need more drugs!"

February 9, 9:00 (after drugs that came at intervals more regular than my contractions). The on-call doctor, looking freshly primmed and painted, breezes into the room. She positions herself down by the now crowning Asher.

February 9, 9:01. I push.

February 9, 9:02. I push again.

February 9, 9:03. Asher David Howe is born (two weeks early) weighing 8 lbs 7 oz.

Bridge of Sighs and Waiting for Birdy

I'm playing with fire by writing about books when Tyler has just posted a video about the 8 Crazy Nights. I'm probably going to have to watch The Shining just to make up for it.



This might sound really pessimistic, but I agreed with this reviewer after reading this novel: "Anyone aspiring to be a fiction writer is inclined to give up the dream after reading Russo." Lately I've been reading books and wondering to myself, "How do you get to be that good?" I like to think I'm a pretty good writer, but I'm light years behind these novelists. Not that my dream is be a fiction writer (my creative writing class in college taught me that I can't make up scenarios and that I should stick to creative nonfiction). But HOW do they write like that? It's beyond me.

This book dealt with lots of different commentable themes, but one question that kind of stuck with me is "Is it better to love or be loved?" One character, Sarah, has to choose between two different men; one she has the potential to love passionately, and the other who loves her passionately. One offers her excitement and fiery love, the other offers her lifelong stability. In the end she chooses stability and does love her husband (if in a very peaceful way), all while admitting that some small part of her regrets missing passion.

Now don't read this wrong, Tyler, because we have PLENTY of passion in our life together, but of all the men I've loved, I'm grateful that I chose the one who offered me peace and stability. I was thinking about when Tyler and I chose to get married seven years ago how little we knew each other. Now keep in mind, Tyler and I had known each other for thirteen years at that point. But we still made that decision mostly on faith, trusting that we would have that decision confirmed as we lived together and learned together. And I'm amazed by what a good decision that was. Tyler is hard working and good at his work. He controls his emotions so that he can parent with love. He supports me and my desires, picking up any pieces I drop so that I can live my passions. And all of these qualities give me a peaceful and constant life, the thing I've learned I want most in this life.

I agree with the novel that people have to prioritize their life. Once you make one decision, you automatically sacrifice other choices. But choosing Tyler has never felt like a sacrifice of anything, something I'm grateful to say seven years later.

Is it better to love or be loved? Both.



Now I had a similar reaction to this book. How do you write like that? This book was more depressing, though, because it was a collection of essays that the author Catherine Newman originally wrote like a blog, essentially. This IS what I'd like to do. And I just read it and thought, "Man, she's good."

Motherhood, it's not for the light of heart. But something about it MUST be light, or we'd all run screaming in the street. Sometimes we still run screaming in the street. I really felt Newman understood that when she wrote, "I sleep in a little rowboat. In a thunderstorm, during a war, with cannons going off all night long. And also sharks."

Another Eight-Crazy-Nights Miracle!

It's that special time of year again. This Friday marks opening ceremonies for The Eight Crazy Nights of Rob and Ty.

As a reminder to some, I refer you to the definitive Encyclopedia of Laura for a description of the history of this blessed event:

In 2002, Tyler and Rob (Tyler's cousin) lived at Bountiful Court apartment complex in Provo, Utah. (As an interesting sidenote, Maquel (Tyler's sister) bought them contracts there while they were on their missions because she found it "adorable" how the six-boys-to-100-square-feet boys' apartments faced the girls' and then went and bought herself a contract at the infinitely nicer and more sophisticated Chatham Towne condos. Tyler and Rob didn't find Bountiful Court nearly as adorable.) While at the BC, Tyler and Rob noticed that their birthdays--March 13 and March 21--were eight days apart (Just like Hannukah!) and they christened the time period Adam Sandler style--The Eight Crazy Nights of Rob and Ty.

They made a menorah. Of course the BC didn't allow open flame in the apartment so they blew out the candles immediately after lighting them. They conned girls who had crushes on Rob to bring them presents to celebrate each of the nights. And they were to March 19 before they realized that if they celebrated both Tyler's birthday on March 13 and Rob's birthday on March 21, there were actually NINE Crazy Nights of Rob and Ty.

Hence the birth of the SECOND-seventh Night. Which of course is celebrated on March 20, after the first Seventh Night. And it's a very mysterious holiday. Mysterious things happen all day long, including the watching of a scary movie, which is particularly mysterious for Laura and Rob's wife Becky, who hate scary movies.

The following is propaganda advertising the 2009 holiday. NBC has yet to pick it up, so I have to distribute it via the world wide web. Enjoy!

This is Your Brain. This is Your Brain on Motherhood. Any Questions?

If Asher eats every 2 to 3 hours, nursing for 15 minutes on each side and then gets eye medicine 4 times a day, while Talmage gets eye medicine 2 times a day and I get eye medicine every 4 hours, remembering to take Motrin every 8 hours, giving Talmage Tylenol every 4 hours and Ibuprofrin every 6 hours, reminding Tyler to take Sudafed every 4-6 hours and Chloraseptic every 5 hours, what time will we arrive in Chicago if we leave on the 11:15 pm train on Tuesday?

Why did I take advanced calculus? To keep track of this two week period of my life. That's why.