Happy New Years on January 27, 2011, 4:14 am.

I never wrote a New Year's Post.

I've been planning on it. It hasn't been fabulous, mind you, but I wanted to break down my favorite posts of last year, my favorite books of last year, and run through my New Year's Resolutions. Yes, I intentionally capitalized those words. That's because that's how they loom in my head. In fact, they should be in all caps. My NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS.

See, the thing is, I don't really know what resolutions to write down. Well, yes I do; the same things stress me out day in, day out.

1. Maintain a clean house.
2. Complete my daily scripture study.
3. Write a weekly blog entry.
4. Train for this cursed marathon.
5. And still spend the same amount of quality time with my children that I've truly enjoyed spending.

The thing is, I don't know how to make it all fit. Well, I don't know how to make it all fit and still sleep occasionally. (Although the stress is keeping me up at night.) So there's something in me that wants to make the resolution:

1. Live in grimy filth, eat cookie dough, and watch television that excels at being truly awful. With my children. Also, shower less.

Except I don't REALLY want to do that.

You always hear of those lists that women make when they're 80 that say, "I wish I had stressed out about motherhood less and enjoyed it more." But is that really possible to do when you're in the thick of it?

And here's the real secret. While I was at the Children's Museum a couple of days ago, I overheard one mother comment to another that the third child was easier than the first two, because she stopped feeling guilty about mothering. The second mother responded, "Yeah, remember when we used to read to our children?" Then they both laughed.

I envied them. I envied that they seem to have achieved enough balance they they can enjoy motherhood without stressing about it. But the comment also scared me to death. You see, I don't want to stop reading to my kids. I really and honestly want to

1. Maintain a clean house.
2. Complete my daily scripture study.
3. Write a weekly blog entry.
4. Train for this cursed marathon.
5. And still spend the same amount of quality time with my children that I've truly enjoyed spending.

So what's my New Year's Resolution 2011?

1. Hang on to the guilt.

Two Boys and One Blanket

Stuck in Zion

It's Difficult When You Only Have a 70 Word Vocabulary. (Give Or Take 20 Words.)

(Said while Grandma and I were putting Asher into his backpack.)

Asher: Shoe. Off! Shoe. Off!

Grandma: No, Asher, we can't take your shoe off.

Asher: Shoe. OFF! Shoe. OFF!

Mom: Asher, it's cold outside, honey. We can't take your shoes off.

Asher: SHOE! OFF!! SHOE! OFF!!

Mom: Hey look! Asher's shoe fell off!

Surprise!

I've Been a Little Hard to Get Ahold of Lately. I Apologize.

"Dear Laura,

As I try calling your house once again, I sit thinking how this is what it must have been like in 1801. I have so much to say to you...or at least I did with each phone call that I've made to you in the last two weeks...once it was because I thought Dad was dying and mom was too busy finding her lost book to fill me in...another time it was because I wanted to discuss my new Christmas book with you...and another time because I made a delicious recipe and I thought you could enjoy it with me...and no way to communicate with you. It's very frustrating living in 1801. I thought about writing you a passionate letter about how you should get your phone fixed...but could find no horse to dispatch it to you.

So how bout it...how bout you spring for that electrician already?

Love,

Marissa"

Go Utes!

No Time to See a Doctor When I've Got This Village to Plunder

A doctor once told my mom that the silly happy face/frowny face pain charts are surprisingly accurate. He asks, "How much pain are you in?" and if your mouth is grimacing a bit, a quick look at the chart shows that you are at a six. Surprisingly accurate, except for one group of people. Scandinavians are always at pain level zero .

My dad isn't Scandinavian per se. Genetically he's about half Norwegian and culturally he's two generations removed from the motherland. But spiritually, he's skiing across mountains with Harald Fairhair, scaling 1,000 foot fjords and farming infertile ground. He's fighting Iceland and Sweden and England. He's eating lutefisk and lefse (two foods that I--three generations removed from the motherland--find barely palatable after they are drowned in melted butter) and not only is he eating them, he's eating them while celebrating.

Scandinavians don't feel pain. And even if they did, they would delight in it.

I think I was ten years old when I hiked Angel's Landing in Zion's National Park. In 100 degree temperatures. Without water. Why? Because water is for wusses. Do you think Magnus Erickson drank water when he united the Norwegian and Swedish thrones? No. He munched on lefse. I was seventeen when my father taught me how to handle difficult hills while running. You run up them faster. Because clearly, that's how the Vikings pillaged and plundered their way through Northern France. Quickly.

Once my dad decided to put on his running shoes and run up Millcreek Canyon. From his house to the top of Millcreek Canyon is about 10 miles. Once he got to the top of the canyon he decided he was feeling pretty good, so he'd run to Dog Lake, another 3.1 miles up the mountain. He felt pretty good there, so he decided to run over the mountain to Big Cottonwood Canyon, 2.5 more miles. Once he got to the canyon down there, he wasn't feeling so good, maybe due to the fact that he hadn't drank any water during the last 15.6 miles of exercise. But there was really only one way to get home, so he ran down the canyon, another 9.1 miles. When he reached the 7-11 at the base of the canyon, after 24.7 miles over a mountain with no water, he decided he'd better call mom. In the meantime, though, he was really thirsty.

Do Norwegians ask convenience store attendants for drinks of water? No, but they are allowed to live off the land, so when the 7-11 guy cleared out the ice from the slurpee machine by throwing it onto the pavement, Dad slurped it off the concrete.

About two weeks before Christmas Dad was feeling really winded. In fact, climbing stairs was difficult. Did he admit this problem? Obviously, no. But after three weeks of little breathing and a pain in his leg, mom forced him to the hospital. He had blood clots all through him. The radiologist reported "On the pulmonary tree, every branch is infused with embolisms."

They released him from the hospital. Next day he ran a temperature of 103. The next day it was 104. Do Vikings go to the hospital over a little fever? No, they send their wife to the store for another thermometer, because it is more likely the atmosphere has changed and the mercury is reacting a bit to the new pressure. After the second thermometer also read 104, Dad grudgingly went back to the ER.

You'll be happy to know he slept for the last 48 hours. Even a Viking needs a little down time.

Lotion

He's in the Hospital for Blood Clots. That's a Whole Different Entry, Though.

Talmage: Mom, can we visit Papa in the hospital today?

Mom: You know, buddy? That's very sweet of you, but I don't think we have time today.

Talmage: What if we just run in and Asher and I each get one piece of licorice? We'll go super fast.

Mom: I don't think that counts as visiting Papa in the hospital.

Talmage: What if we just get one piece? And Asher and I share it?

Mom: What if we don't even say hi to Papa?

Talmage: Okay. Just the licorice.

Mom: No.

Our House!

Talmage: How old is our house?
Parent 1: About 55 years old.
Parent 2: Well, more than that!
Parent 1: Wasn't it built in about 1955?
Parent 2: 1953.
Parent 1: Oh, I can now see how far off I was.
Talmage: So our house isn't as old as Nana or Papa?
Parent 2: That's right.
Talmage: But our house is taller than both of them. . . . And fatter!

Nothing Says "Happy New Year" Like the Grand America

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.